


That Night

by freakazoid_13



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Beach Sex, Car Accidents, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drugs, Fiction, Hospitals, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Slash, Music, Musicians, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Rock and Roll, Romance, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Short & Sweet, Slash, Smoking, Swearing, Underage Sex, Violence, car crash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-07-27 03:22:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 44,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7601467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakazoid_13/pseuds/freakazoid_13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kaleb is having the best night of his life, until he meets Wesley. Now he’ll just be lucky if he can survive until morning. m/m slash</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Title:** That Night

 **Author:** freakazoid_13

 **Summary:** Kaleb is having the best night of his life, until he meets Wesley. Now he’ll just be lucky if he can survive until morning.

 **Rating:** M for explicit sexual content, violence, drug use, and swearing (all the f***ing swearing).

 **Warnings:** M/M (which means two guys doin’ it, if you don’t like it, don’t read it), consensual sex with a minor, drug addiction, graphic violence, and death. If any of these things are triggers for you, please don’t read. Or, you know, do, but skip the parts that freak you out.

 **Disclaimer:** All characters belong to me, your author, except for the many pop-culture references. Any resemblance to persons living or dead are purely coincidental (or, you know, maybe a little intentional, but I dare you to prove it! Muahaha!)

  


**That Night**

By freakazoid_13

  


**Prologue**

 

I hum as I lay dying. A weird thing to do when you’re dying, I know. But what else am I supposed to do? I might as well make it pleasant for myself, for however long I have. This is what it’s come to. Lying in a puddle of my own blood, looking up at the slate grey of the sky, squinting at the watery sun that’s trying to break through the fog, a fly landing on my cheek, not having enough strength in my arms to swat it away. Just enough strength to keep humming. _Heroes_ by David Bowie. Fitting, really. So this is how it ends, huh? I’d always imagined something more Rock n’ Roll. Like being electrocuted by my own guitar. Or being stabbed by an obsessed fan. Yeah. That would’ve been cool. There’s the distant sound of cars passing by on the freeway to my left, like waves breaking against rocks. It’s muted now, more like the whooshing sound inside a seashell that everyone always insisted was the sound of the ocean but had always just sounded like wind to me. The only clear sound is my own humming, reverberating in my throat, behind my ears, behind my eyes. All other sounds are dull, lifeless (ha!) in comparison, but even the lonely tune is losing its substance, like cigarette ash in a breeze.

The sad white-blue of the predawn sky is losing its brightness and I don’t need to squint anymore. Which is good, since I don’t really have the strength to move my eyelids. There’s a blackness encroaching on the edges of my vision, a tiredness settling in my heavy limbs and it just feels like I’m falling asleep. A deep, beautiful sleep. That doesn’t sound so bad. The blood in the dry grass under my back, under my head, is losing its warmth, or maybe I’m losing the ability to feel the warmth. I can’t feel the cold either. When did I stop humming? I don’t remember stopping. I guess that’s fine. I don’t really feel like humming anymore anyway. I don’t feel like doing much of anything. I don’t feel much at all, really. Or hear. Or see. Am I even breathing? Who cares. I just want to sleep. A long sleep. And I’ll wake up refreshed. That’s what’ll happen. I’ll go to sleep and wake up and… _He_ won’t be there, will he? No. I suppose he won’t. And I won’t be there either. It’s not sleep. It’s death. You fucked up, Kaleb Kotzias. You fucked up big time. He’s gone, and it’s all your fault. For dying like a bitch on the side of the 101N. There’s a sound. Far, far away. So far it must be in outer space. Or maybe I’m in outer space? I can’t make out what it is. Maybe it’s just more cars. Do cars make whining sounds, like cats? Must be it. A cat. Doesn’t matter anymore. The last thing I manage to think before I give in and fall into the gaping chasm of emptiness is _I’m sorry_. And that’s when I died.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we are introduced to our merry band of idiots.

**Chapter 1**

 

10 hours earlier

 

Saturday 10:23pm

 

How much cocaine can I get up my nose in one snort, do you think? Let’s find out. 

Apparently a lot. I swipe my finger across the scattered powder on the glass of the coffee table and pop my finger into my mouth. Not delicious. But effective. The rush is near immediate. And it feels fucking awesome. I feel like I could pick up this table and throw it out the window, or fuck a hundred people, or write a thousand songs. Shit. I should’ve done the blow  _ before _ the show. Why didn’t I again? Right, right. Fucking Kim. We don’t play high, we don’t play drunk. It’s a crutch. I can fucking hear her in my head like she’s right next me. Well, I didn’t play high and I didn’t play drunk, Kim, so fuck off out of my head. I said fuck off out of my head! Why can I still hear her?

“Kaleb, jesus!” She is surprisingly strong for such a little girl. She pulls me bodily to my feet, where I wobble and glare back at her. The disappointment in her face is infuriating. It’s not like I’m a junkie, I’m just having a little fun. Celebrating. I’m allowed to fucking celebrate. I’m about to let her know this, in no uncertain terms, when she cuts me off. “You gotta get your high ass out there. Sing’s about to beat the shit out of James.” 

That’s sobering (almost). I follow her out of the den (or study, or sitting room, or whatever these fancy people call it), through the living room pulsing with vibrant partygoers and vibrant music and vibrant weed, out to the crisp Marin air, wind from the water whipping my over-long black hair into my eyes, cutting through my thin white T-shirt and making me break out in goose pimples. At the bottom of the steps, mercifully out in the street as opposed to disrupting the glorious after-party going on upstairs, Sing shoves James backwards with all his might. James staggers, but apart from that he doesn’t budge much. Sing is deceptively weak. It must be racist to assume that all Asians know Martial Arts, but I can’t be bothered right now. “-motherfucker!” I hear him cry out, the tail end of what was likely a lengthier insult.

“Hey!” I shout as I bound down the infernally long stairs, taking the steps two at a time. Sausalito cliffside bungalows with their fucking exterior stairs. I nearly kill myself tripping over the last couple of steps and stumble to a halt somewhere between Sing and James. I can hear Kim taking the stairs far more slowly, in her ridiculously high heels, behind me. “Hey,” I reiterate, catching my breath. My heart’s beating like a motherfucker. Drugs. Stupid drugs. Good for fun, not for physical exertion. “The fuck’s going on?”

“He’s a fucking liar and a thief is what’s going on!” Sing shouts more at James than me.

“I’m not a liar,” James defends, as unperturbed as always. “Or a thief. I’m just forgetful. Everybody knows that. It’s not news, mate.”

“I don’t give a shit about your Alzheimer's,  _ mate _ ,” Sing retorts scathingly. “You’ve ruined my life. The least you can do is give it the fuck back.” 

“Ruined your life?” James scoffs. “Trust me, you don’t need any help with that.”

Sing lunges forward again and I only manage to catch him due to my chemically enhanced reflexes. He might not be strong, but he is fast. 

“Okay, okay.” Sing shrugs out of my grasp but doesn’t make another move, just folds his arms over his chest sulkily. I turn my attention to James, because clearly Sing isn’t going to be rational about this. “So? What did you do?”

“Why is it always  _ me _ that has to have done something?” James sniffs and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. I steal the pack from him and pull out a cigarette for myself. 

“Because it  _ is _ always you,” Kim retorts, having come to stand beside me as an extra barrier between Sing and James.

“This shit bag promised me, fucking  _ promised _ me he was gonna give our demo to Mark. But of course he didn’t. Cause he’s a fucking liar. Now he’s keeping it for himself, so I can’t give it to anyone else, because he’s fucking jealous. He’s always been jealous of me -”

I groan around my cigarette and exhale the smoke through my words. “Don’t start that shit again, Sing. No one’s jealous of your -, wait, what demo?”

“ _ My _ demo tape.  _ My _ fucking band’s demo tape.”

“Your band made a demo tape?”

“Don’t be a prick, Kaleb,” Kim hisses.

“I’m not being a prick! I didn’t know!”

“Yeah, well, now you know,” Sing concludes bitterly. “My band made a demo tape. And I gave it to this fucking moron because he promised he could get it to Mark before he and the Founders left town. I gave it to you a fucking  _ month _ ago, asshole!” Sing makes an aborted lunge, which has the desired effect of making James back up a step.

“I said I’m sorry!” He whines, in a rare display of any emotion aside from stoned. “What more do you want from me!”

“I want you to give me the fucking tape back and eat my fist, bitch!” It’s Kim who has to catch Sing this time because I’m laughing too hard.

“‘Eat my fist, bitch’?” I quote. A high-pitched shriek of laughter escapes me. Shit. I sound really high. I think I  _ am _ really high. “Who the fuck even says that? What is this? A Tarantino movie?”

Kim, ever level-headed, picks up where my attempted mediation left off. “Where’s the tape now?”

James scratches his bristly chin for a moment. “Dunno. I think I left it in Cody’s car.”

“You left it in Cody’s car?” Sing echoes shrilly.

“Okay. Sing.” Kim holds him by the shoulders, forcing him to face her and look into her earnest face. “We’re going to get you your tape back.”

“You are?” Sing’s anger drains away to relief.

“We are?” Kim shoots me a warning glance. It isn’t that I’m not totally into helping out a friend in need, but there’s a rager going on inside. And I deserve a little R&R. We played a killer show tonight. It’s not every day that you old college buddy who happens to be the lead singer of a suddenly successful band calls you up and asks you to open for him. We’ve been struggling for years to get our little shit band off the ground and tonight I finally got to see it, big bold black letters on a brilliantly lit marquee: “The Founders” and, in much smaller but no less impressive letters, “Primary Colours”. Kim used to say the British spelling made us sound like hipsters, to which I countered that we  _ are _ hipsters, in a purely objective way, and that it’s not pretentious because James happens to be British. Problem solved. Anyway. I digress. We’re hitting in the big leagues now. Five years of hard work are finally starting to pay off. I damn well earned this rockstar after party. But Kim’s giving me those eyes. The ones that say  _ I’m your conscience, let me be your guide! _ Except Jiminy Cricket would never punish Pinocchio by confiscating his XBOX. Pinocchio was so lucky Jiminy Cricket wasn’t both his conscience  _ and _ his roommate. 

“Yes, we are,” Kim concludes with finality. 

“Thanks, Kim.” Sing gives her an awkward but heartfelt little hug. “At least  _ one _ of you has some decency left.”

“Two,” I correct. “Two of us have some decency left. I’m getting the tape too, y’know.”

Sing snorts. “Right, Kaleb. You’re a fucking angel.”

“Hey. Rude.”

“Come on, Kay. Let’s beat it.” Kim grabs my hand, the one not currently holding a cigarette. and starts dragging me in the direction of her car. I look over my shoulder and find James heading back upstairs while Sing sticks around to loiter and check his phone, as if he’s the Most Interesting Man in the World.

“The fuck? It’s  _ his _ tape and  _ his _ fuckup, how come we’re the ones who have to leave?”

“Because they’re infants,” Kim announces, without so much as a backwards glance. “And it was time for us to leave anyway. Maybe cool your heels a bit.”

Kim’s car is some kind of mid-sized Hyundai - I don’t really know anything about cars, we’re lucky I could even identify it as a Hyundai - in a mundane silver. I’ve always felt that its dullness is completely at odds with Kim’s passionate and colorful disposition. Colorful in a literal way, seeing as I’ve seen her hair in so many different colors I’m not even sure what shade she was born with. At present it’s a rather nauseating shade of neon green. On the bright side, she won’t get hit by a car when she’s crossing the street at night. 

After opening the passenger door I stand mutely for a second, aghast at her implication. I climb inside and bang the car door shut hard enough to rattle the frame (though not hard enough to rattle Kim). “Cool my heels off? Cool  _ my _ heels off?” I repeat incredulously. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

As she puts the car into drive she explains with measured calmness, “I mean maybe there’s such a thing as having too much fun.”

“I don’t have a problem, Kimberly.” I take pleasure in her cringe at the use of her full name as we peel out into the winding streets of Sausalito. “Not everyone who engages in recreational drug use is going to turn into Sam.”

It was a low blow and I know it. Sam’s a touchy subject for all of us, but I know it’s him she sees whenever someone lights up a bong or snorts a line or swallows a pill. Honestly, I see him too. But I’ve learned to ignore it over time. One simply cannot be a musician in the Bay Area and not partake of some illicit substance or another. Even Kim smokes the occasional joint. I get where she’s coming from, though. I also get that I might’ve been overdoing it at the party. I just don’t appreciate being scolded like I’m fifteen again and my mom’s caught me with beer on my breath. I’m a twenty-six year old grown ass man. I think I can handle myself.

I watch Kim stew in silence for a while as she maneuvers through the dark mountains, the tightly clustered trees illuminated only by our headlights. I’m silently grateful she’s barely had anything to drink tonight. 

When we make it onto the highway and she still hasn’t said anything, I chuck my cigarette butt out the window, rolling it back up to block out the biting wind, and steal myself to the fact that I fucked up (no surprise) and am going to have to make it right. 

“I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it.” She doesn’t look at me. She’s pitched forward, gripping the steering wheel like she’s trying to throttle it. I try a different tact. “You’re right. I should be more careful. I was being stupid.” I see her hands relax on the wheel, knuckles fading from paper-white to her only slightly less white normal pallor. I take this as an opportunity to explain myself. “I just don’t get why you don’t trust me. I was there too, y’know, when everything went down. You don’t think I shit myself too when I think about ending up like him? ‘Cause I do. We all do. And yeah, sometimes I get carried away, I fuck up. I’m human. But I’ll never let it get to that point. I’m smarter than that. You know I am.” She glances sideways at me. It’s too dark to read the look in her eyes so I barrel on. “You don’t have to keep looking out for me, you know. We’re not kids anymore.”

“I’ll never stop looking out for you, Kay,” she says fondly and I know our “fight” is over. She’s always been a mother hen. Even in high school. I was the weird kid, the skinny one with too long hair who walked around with a notebook full of emo poems clutched to his chest, always getting pushed into lockers by jocks and getting my head shoved into toilets (the word “faggot” may have been abundantly used, not inaccurately I might add). She was even smaller then than she is now, but no one would mess with her on account of her shaved head and Soviet boots. She became my micro bodyguard. I took up guitar and started putting music to my poems. She took up bass just so she could play on stage with me at the school talent show and no one would laugh at me. Kim started dating Sam, the reformed jock with a heart of gold, and he became my friend by default. We were the three musketeers, if one of the the musketeers was fucking one of the other musketeers. All in all, high school turned out to be not so bad. 

Sam and Kim ended up going to the same college, you know, the kind for smart people, while I wound up at community college just to get my parents off my back. Sam and Kim broke up, so it goes. Kim went on an exchange program to Barcelona, met James there. James and Kim dated briefly, so it goes. 

I tried and failed to get a band started with my best friend (at the time) and roommate Robbie. Robbie took off to LA and Kim returned, with James in tow, in time for my brief period of mental imbalance (I’m all better now, I swear - and it had nothing to do with the fact that I was in love with Robbie, I have no idea what would make you think that). I dropped out of school, wouldn’t leave my apartment, shit got bad. Kim evolved into her next form: Super Mother Hen. She convinced James and my college friend Cody to form a band with me as a sort of “therapy”, to help my “recovery”. It worked. I got better. I started writing songs again, lost myself in the music, like I always do. We had fun, we partied, we played small gigs around the Bay. Our music was surprisingly well received. We started gaining a modicum of popularity. We started taking the music seriously. Cody dropped out, he’s never been able to take anything seriously. It didn’t matter though. The three of us, Kim and James and me, we were the creative ones, the driving force. 

We put our stuff online, made a Facebook page, recorded a whole album in my parents garage with shitty, second-hand audio equipment. A little San Francisco indie record label approached  _ us _ . We cut a record. A real record. It’s on Spotify and everything. Things were really looking up for us. And then fucking Sam happened. Kim didn’t fall apart though. Kim never falls apart. She’s the strong one. She evolved into her final form: Super Mega Ultra Mother Hen. She made us dump any and all drugs we had down the toilet. She made a bonfire on the beach and made each of us, our whole group of friends, me, Cody, Ellen, James, Glenn, Sing, swear “the pact”. To this day, none of us have broken it. We’re all too afraid that one of us will end up like him, or one of our friends will end up like him. It’s a sobering thought. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments keep me going! You can follow me on Tumblr and LJ under freakazoid_13. Stay tuned for a new chapter next week!


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Wesley stage left.

**Chapter 2**

 

10:52pm

 

Cody lives in a three bedroom converted Victorian apartment in downtown San Rafael, just South of where he grew up in Novato. I’d pity him if I weren’t paying out the nose on rent for a two bedroom apartment in San Francisco that I share with three other people. Up the stairs and at his front door, it’s clear he’s having some kind of a shindig inside. We can hear the rhythmic thumps of music and feel the bass in our bones. We can also smell the weed curling out from under the door. I give Kim a questioning look as she rings the doorbell. She makes a face that communicates  _ what, like I’m supposed to know? _ But just before the door opens I see realization dawn on her face. 

Cody stands in the doorway, clearly intoxicated by something or other. The pot smell hits us in an almost overwhelming wave. His glazed eyes turn bright when he sees us, breaking into a huge grin. 

“You made it!” He picks Kim up in a bearhug. He’s a huge man but as gentle as he is big. His Appalachian sweater reminds me of a high school stoner, which in many ways I suppose he is. Everyone has that one friend who never grew up.

“Yeeaaahhhh,” Kim replies carefully from under Cody’s massive arms. “We made it.”

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he says, releasing Kim only to squeeze the life out of me. “What with your gig and all. How was it?”

“It was great, man,” I offer as casually as I can manage. He doesn’t really care, he’s just being nice, so I don’t want to be a dick by bragging about it.

“Well, come on in, compadres. Mi casa, su casa.” He steps back into his apartment and sweeps his arm grandly. We pile inside and shut the door behind us. 

The music may be blaring (some terrible rap music that makes me feel like a grandpa for thinking kids’ music today is just “noise”) but the party goers are positively comatosed. I can barely see them through the fog of smoke. Here and there, bodies are strewn haphazardly across sofas and bean bags and at the table. It looks more like a turn of the century opium den than a party. 

Kim leans close to my ear to whisper, “I totally forgot, dude. He invited us, like, last week.”

“Invited us to what? A voluntary gas chamber?” I whisper back.

“Look, I’m gonna broach the subject of the tape and the car gently. Or else he’ll think we came here just for that and he’s gonna get all butthurt. You know how Cody can get.” I do, in fact, know. “So just, I dunno, hang out, lemme work my magic, ok?”

“Hang out? With who? The cat?” Though I’m fairly certain the cat must also be stoned at this point. Wait, does he even have a cat?

But she doesn’t answer my question, just makes shooing motions and follows Cody into the kitchen, where he’s probably getting her a beer, or finding a bong.

I wave my arms to clear a fog bank drifting in front of me and pick my way carefully over bodies. Maybe if I could just find a spot where the music isn’t so deafening. I spy a mostly unoccupied couch in the far corner, facing a TV. I tiptoe to it and find that the music is acceptably merely a dull roar on this side of the apartment. As satisfied as I’m going to get, I climb over the sofa back and plop down onto the cushions. I’m surprised to find the video game Halo on the TV and look over to see that the sofa’s lone occupant is playing. It takes me more than a minute to recognize him. Long enough that he looks at me out of the corner of his eye and smirks. It’s hard to tell though, because he has one of those mouths that, from a distance, looks like it’s always smirking. 

“ _ Wesley _ ?” 

He can probably hear the surprise in my voice because he laughs, more of a chuckle under his breath really, the corners of his mouth pulling into a fuller smile. “Been a while, huh?”

“Shit, yeah. You got…” Hot. “Bigger.”

“That tends to happen when you grow up.”

Wesley is Cody’s kid brother. I’ve only met him a handful of times, when we were all still in college. He’d been a shy little thing, never really talking to us older kids, always on his Nintendo DS. I never really thought anything of him. But now he’s… He’s like full blown grown up. His sandy blonde hair is a shaggy mop around his head. His eyes are so dark they’re practically black, ringed by deep circles that would make anyone else think he was an insomniac or a drug addict except for the fact that I know they’re hereditary, Cody has them too. He’s got that tortured artist look that I’m a sucker for. Him and his skinny jeans and too-tight shirt and thin leather jacket so worn that I can see the pale skin of his elbows through the holes in the sleeves. He’s so thin I bet I could wrap my arms twice around his narrow waist - shit. I’m lusting after Cody’s kid brother. I’m a douchebag and a half. Well, Cody never has to know, right?

I sidle up to him on the couch, pretending to be interested in the game. “What level are you at?”

“I’m playing online.”

I nod sagely. “I’m more of an RPG man, myself.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? What’s your favorite?”

“You can’t just ask a man his favorite video game.” I give him one of my winning grins, one that I know is all flashing white teeth and wrinkles my blue eyes at the corners. A grin that I’ve been told can weaken the knees. I am duly surprised and pleased when Wesley side-eyes me again but quickly looks away, his cheeks coloring slightly. So, Cody’s kid brother, not entirely straight, are we? “That’s like asking ‘what’s your favorite song’ or ‘what’s your favorite movie’. You can’t just pick one.”

“Okay, fine,  _ connoisseur _ , what’re your top three?”

“Probably Dragon Age, all the Mass Effects, and the Elder Scrolls series.”

“I’m sensing a theme.”

“Oh?” I lean back and put my arms behind my head. “Please, enlighten me.”

“Those are all games where your character can be gay.”

I laugh, surprised. “Well sleuthed, Sherlock. I like them for other reasons too but, yes, the gayness is a definite bonus.” I eye him speculatively, wondering if I should tip my hand. “What, ah, what did  _ you _ think of them?”

“Of what? The games?” I like his voice. It’s deeper than you’d expect from someone so slight. There’s a velvety richness to it that I just want to wrap around me and go to sleep in. He shrugs noncommittally. “They were ok, I guess.” Wesley peeks at me once more then chuckles at my frown. “You’re too easy.”

Well played, Cody’s kid brother, well played. He’s outed me twice now. Once for gay and a second time for being gay in his direction, all while keeping his own sexuality and interest ambivalent. Wesley is clearly the brains in the Bloom family (though I’ve never met Mr. and Mrs. Bloom, so who’s to say?). I’d been intrigued before, but I’m positively fascinated now. I decide to press my luck. Go big or go home, right?

“So I’ve been told,” I drawl, giving the innuendo ample room for full effect. On screen, Wesley’s avatar makes a fatal move and is pronounced to have been killed by “C0ckM0ngerz333”. Before he can re-enter, I grab the control out of his hands, making sure my hand brushes his skin just long enough to make my intentions unambiguous. I hold his black eyes with my own long enough that I’m sure a straight man would have looked away. He wets his bow-shaped lips with a sliver of tongue and I don’t disguise my leering gaze. His cheeks turn a patchwork of mottled pink and he turns away, refocusing his attention on the TV, folding his hands into his lap. Bingo. I smile triumphantly and begin a new campaign. I’m not particularly good at first person shooters, but I know he’s not really paying attention to the way I’m playing. I can see him out of the corner of my eye, glancing at me and looking quickly away. Now that we’re on more equal footing, I endeavor to seal the deal by casually discovering whether or not he’s available.

“Any reason why you’re sitting all on your own, playing Halo, in the middle of a party?”

Wesley snorts. “If you can call it a party.”

He is surprisingly good at dodging questions. “You’re here, though.”

I look away from the screen long enough to see him shrug and roll his eyes simultaneously. “Didn’t have much of a choice. I’m staying the weekend.”

“Not your scene then?”

“I’m not much of a stoner.”

He laughs and I realize belatedly that I had raised my eyebrows incredulously. I grin then, at a sudden thought. “Do you get high though?”

He pinches his mouth, assessing. “Sometimes.”

I lean closer to him, so close that I get a whiff of his clean smell, a light shampoo and white soap kind of smell that makes me think of fresh laundry and stepping out of a shower. It’s amazingly refreshing in this smoke pit. I see him tense at my proximity, his adam’s apple bobbing on a single swallow and I note the mole on his throat, like an invitation. My voice is a low purr when I say, “I’ve got blow, you know, if you want to do a line with with me.”

When he turns to look at me, his infinitely dark eyes sparkle with amusement. “Really? Offering drugs to a minor? I’m disappointed in you, Kaleb.”

My mouth hangs open. My character must’ve died because he takes the controller back from me and resumes playing. I hardly notice. A minor? Fucking  _ seriously _ ? Damn you, penis, leading me astray! Damn you straight to hell! (Not really, I love you, penis, never leave me). I can’t believe I almost… Shit. It doesn’t bare thinking about. A minor. Is he still in high school? I let myself get seduced by his big, black eyes and his self-possessed demeanor and his fucking gorgeous mouth and - fuck, looking closely I can see it, the baby fat on his cheeks, the skinny adolescent body. I was cock-blinded. He’s probably not even meant to be that slight of build, he’s probably not even done growing yet. He’s probably going to be as tall as his brother. I feel my face heating up with shame and guilt and I scootch away from him, pretending to be engrossed in the little armored men on screen getting their heads blown off. Good thing I found out sooner rather than later. I’d be up Shit Creek if I’d ended up in the bathroom with him, my tongue down his throat, and he’d let slip he had to hurry or he’d be late getting home and his mom would flip out. Though I guess that’s not really the case since he’s staying the weekend with Cody, but you get my point. I’ve let my dick lead me into a lot of precarious circumstances, but this one would’ve really taken the cake. It was one thing when I just thought I was hitting on Cody’s little brother, it’s a whole other thing to hit on Cody’s  _ underage _ little brother. I try in vain to do the math in my head. When was the last time I’d seen him? When I was in my senior year? And how old was Wesley then? Eleven, Twelve, thirteen? It’s hard to tell, he was so little and skinny and frail looking. He could be fifteen right now for all I know. Crap. It’s official. I’m a sleaze-ball. I’m the guy my parents warned me stay away from. I feel queasy. I wish I had a drink. Or two. 

Wesley must notice my sudden turn-around. I can tell by the way he shoots me curious looks between kills. It’s not hard to miss. My arms are crossed over my chest like a shield, my threadbare Converse shoe drumming out a rhythm on the puke-colored rug, making my knee bounce. I’m considering offering some lame excuse and just bolting when a hand on my shoulder makes me practically jump out of my skin. I look up to find Kim leaning over the back of the sofa, Cody in tow. 

“We cool?” I ask slowly, eyes darting from her to him and back, trying to discern any hostility. 

“‘Course we’re cool,” she answers me, as if the idea that we wouldn’t be was preposterous. “Tape’s in Cody’s car.”

I was about to respond that I knew that, clearly, Sing had told us, but Cody’s booming voice calls out, “Yo, Wes, where’d you park the car?”

“Up the street.” He ends a digital life with startling precision and an unhealthy amount of gore.

“Up which street?”

“E Street. Around the corner.”

“Which si- just, take ‘em to the car, will ya’? You got the keys anyway.”

“Why do I have to do it?”

“You have the keys! ‘Sides, I gotta stay here. I can’t leave the party unattended.”

“Unattended? It’s not a ‘soiree’, Code, it’s just a bunch of your stoner friends sitting around getting stoned. What, are you worried they’re gonna make off with the TV?”

“Just take ‘em to the car. I’ll give you a beer when you get back.”

“I already drink your beer.”

“Then I won’t tell Mom you drink my beer.”

“If you told Mom, I’d have to tell her what else it is you’re doing here besides -”

“Wesley!” I’ve never heard Cody get angry before. It’s an unsettling sound, like having that one parent who never yells and one day you do something that just makes them snap, and the sound of their roaring voice makes you feel worse than anything ever has. I think Wesley hears it too. Whatever this age old argument is between them, I can tell he’s gone too far. He sighs heavily (an exaggerated, teenage sigh, I might add), sends the game back to the main menu and sets down the controller. He stands and stretches languidly, like a cat, and I try not to stare at the stretch of white skin that appears between the hem of his t-shirt and the band of his black jeans. He walks past me, past Kim, past Cody, and it’s only when he’s reached the door that I realize I’m supposed to follow him.

Kim thanks Cody and promises to be right back. I don’t know why she does, it’s clearly an empty promise since we’re just going to high-tail it back to Sausalito with the demo tape, but I guess it makes her feel better, like we’re not just abandoning Cody for our new, hip, “famous” friends. 

I gulp down the air outside greedily. The cold is shocking but the breeze is a relief after the oppressive, smoke-filled apartment. I can hear Wesley’s Doc Martens pounding down the wooden steps. He stops at the bottom, hands in his jacket pockets, waiting for us. He doesn’t look particularly put out. If anything he looks grateful to have something to do, to get him out of the house and away from Cody’s crowd. I don’t get why he made such a big deal out of it then. It must be a sibling thing. I’ve never understood the dynamic, personally, being an only child myself. 

Kim and I catch up to him and he leads us down the street. Kim tries to make small talk.

“Thanks for doing this for us, Wesley. We really appreciate it.”

“It’s no problem.”

The silence settles over us, like an itchy wool blanket. I can hear a dog bark somewhere, a lonely sound. Wesley crosses the street, unconcerned about cars, and we follow. I can almost feel Kim bristle. It’s one thing to sit quietly with  _ me _ , I’m practically family, but she’s never been able to take a lapse in conversation very well. She feels like she’s being rude, as irrational as that sounds. “All we need is the demo tape. You don’t have to, you know, drive us anywhere.”

“Demo tape?”

“Yeah, for Sing’s band. James was supposed to give it to Mark - the manager for The Founders, I don’t know if you’ve heard of them.”

“I’ve heard of them.”

“Well, he didn’t and Sing wants the tape back so… Here we are.”

I think I see Wesley bob his shaggy head in a nod. The silence settles in again as we round a corner. I wonder vaguely just how far he’s parked. The woes of not having a garage.

“How long has it been, anyway?” Kim tries again. “Four? Five years?”

“Something like that.”

“You must be a sophomore by now.”

Shit. Please say a sophomore in college - as unlikely as that may be.

“Senior, actually.”

“Man, rough times. I hated high school. You ready to get out of there?”

Fuck my life.

“Sure.”

He pulls out his key and the lights flash on an uninteresting looking, slightly battered, crimson Toyota Camry. As we approach it, I can see Kim struggling for something more to say. He’s not giving her much to go on.

“Have you applied to college yet?”

This one’s from me. I can’t help it. I’m interested. He’s so… I don’t know, different. Intriguing. He seems so mature. God knows he’s more mature than I was at his age. He seems to know who he is and doesn’t have anything to prove. He shares so little, but not like he’s keeping secrets, like he simply doesn’t enjoy talking about himself. Who doesn’t like talking about themselves? What  _ teenager _ doesn’t like talking about themselves? I’m a fucking adult and I’m standing here jealous of a kid, wishing I had one iota of the natural confidence he seems to have. I mean, shit, I threw up tonight before we went on stage. He might have blushed when I flirted with him, but somehow I can’t imagine Wesley a nervous wreck about anything. I want to solve him like a puzzle, or open him up like I used to open up my Dad’s old watches and figure out what makes him tick. Or at least try to absorb some of his aplomb by osmosis.

“Not yet.” For a second I think he’s going to brush off the question like he did Kim’s, but he surprises me by adding, “I’m actually looking at Stanford.”

I let out a startled laugh. “Wow. That’s ambitious. You must be a hell of a lot smarter than Cody.”

His hand stills on the door-handle and he looks me square in the eye. The acidic streetlight mottles his face in shadows, making his expression difficult to discern, but I could swear he’s  _ studying _ me, looking for something. Maybe he finds what he’s looking for, maybe he doesn’t, but the moment passes and, on the side of his face clearly illuminated by the orange glow, I see the corner of his mouth pull into a smirk. “So I’ve been told.”

He opens the car door and climbs into the driver’s seat. While he fumbles around inside, Kim gives a strange look. I knit my brows and mouth  _ what? _ She opens and closes her mouth, rethinking whatever it is she was about to say. Before she can, however, Wesley pops back out, a blank CD case in hand. “Okay. This is it.”

It’s strange how such an ordinary looking thing could cause so much trouble. Stranger still is the fact that it’s not a tape at all. We really need to update our lexicon. Though “demo CD” doesn’t quite have the same ring to it. 

When Kim takes it and flips it over in her hand, I realize with a twinge in my gut that this means we’re done, we got what we came for. Wesley’ll go back to Cody’s apartment, we’ll be on our way, and who knows how long it’ll be before I’ll see him again, if ever. I shouldn’t want to see him. I really shouldn’t. He might be mysterious and hot in a very jail-bait sort of way, but that’s just it, he’s a kid. I’m in a band, a band that played a pretty fucking successful gig tonight, and there’s probably more than a few people back at that after-party who’d gladly come to my bed. So why does the thought of never seeing this kid again make my chest constrict and my mouth go dry? That’s probably why I say what I say next.

“Let’s listen to it.”

“What?”

“What?”

Kim and Wesley look at each other askance, having just jinxed each other.

“Yeah,” I plow on. “Why not? I mean, we came all this way, right? And we’re just gonna give it right back to Sing, who knows when we’ll get to listen to it,  _ if _ we’ll get to listen to it.” It doesn’t escape me how my words are eerily mirroring my inner monologue. “Mark’s not gonna get to hear it, so we might as well give it a shot. And Sing’s waited for it this long, a few minutes more isn’t going to make any difference.”

Wesley looks ready to protest, but strangely enough Kim says, “Actually, sure. Why not. I’m in no hurry to get back.” The way she said the last made me aware of her reasoning. She wants to keep me away for as long as possible, get me to sober up some more and rethink the wisdom of heavy drug use. I  _ am _ sober though, or as near as, the close call with Wesley back at Cody’s thing did wonders with that, and I didn’t really snort that much coke to begin with - it was really just enough to get the party started, keep me going for the night. I’m not about to argue with her though, not when her agenda aligns so well with mine.

Wesley is strangely reticent, but he just shrugs and shakes his head, in that illusively unaffected way. “Whatever.” 

He climbs back into the driver’s seat, I round the hood of the car quickly, to beat Kim to the passenger side. Once I’ve closed the door behind me, Kim slides into the back seat and scooches into the middle, resting her elbows on the console. She takes the CD out of its case and holds it out for Wesley, who takes it and turns the key in the ignition once, to start the power. He pops the CD into the player and fiddles with the volume control, putting it at a level he’s comfortable with. We don’t have to wait long before we hear the familiar sound of someone counting down a beat with drumsticks and suddenly the Camry is filled with drums, whining guitars, a glittering synthesizer, and a slick bass line. I’m surprised by how not bad it is. I mean, I’ve always been aware that Sing  _ can _ play guitar, but I never thought he’d find a group of people with any talent to play with him, or that he himself had any talent. I know that’s kind of petty, but I mean how many great bands can come out of one group of friends, you know? Though I suppose that in Paris in the 1920’s you couldn’t swing a cat without hitting a poet or a musician or a painter. 

Just when I was settling in to the pseudo-punk synth-pop-rock riff, the vocals start. Now I’m sold. It doesn’t sound like Sing, but sometimes people’s singing voices sound nothing like their speaking voices, so I could be wrong. Whoever the singer is, the tortured falsetto is haunting. I can feel pain and profound, undiluted passion seeping from the lines. “ _ You always get what you wish / I always get what you wish / You never gave me a chance / I never gave you a clue / Cold burns so bad / It’s what I get for wanting you. _ ” 

I’m so lost in the song (and, I’m man enough to admit it, professional jealousy) that Wesley’s sudden bark of laughter makes me jump.

“Man, I sound like an idiot.”

I stare at him agape for a moment, trying to make sense of the words coming out of his mouth.

“ _ ‘Cold burns so bad _ ’, what kind of emo bullshit is that?” He goes on, his cheeky grin at odds with his words. “And I’m flat as hell. I told Sing we needed to record it one more time.” He shakes his head ruefully, as if at the fond memory of a puppy having an accident on the rug. 

“That’s  _ you _ ?” Kim’s the first one to put the pieces together. It’s so hard to reconcile the idea of this kid, Cody’s little brother, with Sing’s infamous “band”. Sing just seems to be so… removed from Wesley. Thinking that Wesley is the singer in  _ his _ band is like trying to imagine Mars touching Venus. Not to mention that he’s fucking talented as shit. I mean, Stanford? He should be looking at Juilliard, or, better yet, no college at all and just focusing on his music. If he wanted he could go all the way. I couldn’t imagine Sing playing anything bigger than the little theater we have back in my hometown of Petaluma, but Wesley? He’s got the looks, he’s got the voice, he’s got the mercurial blas é attitude. I could see him going the way of The Founders, selling out The Warfield, landing on magazine covers. It was like a veil’s been pulled back from this alluring but otherwise ordinary boy and revealed a rockstar hidden beneath. It’s jarring. 

What’s doubly disconcerting is the way he’s laughing at himself so self-deprecatingly. The first time I’ve seen him smile, really smile, and it’s because he thinks he’s crap. I feel offended for him, for his talent, and find myself needing to defend him  _ to _ him. “Wesley, this is amazing.”

“Sure,” he shakes his head again, clearly thinking I’m just trying to placate him.

“I’m serious.” Like a heart attack. I stare at him intently, trying to make him look at me. When he finally does, I make sure to put every ounce of sincerity into my face and voice, holding his gaze like a vise. “You are insanely talented. I know talent, Wes. I’ve dedicated my life to this. And I can promise you, I will never have what you have.”

Wesley’s smile slips off. He just watches me, searching again, trying to figure me out. I want to scream that there’s nothing to figure out, I don’t have an angle. We might’ve been flirting before, but this is something else. This is about having a gift, and not throwing it away. It comes to me in a sudden flash. “We need to get this to Mark.”

Wesley looks away then, shaking his head at the dashboard, his fingers drumming idly on the steering wheel in time with the song’s beat.

“I’m serious,” I reiterate. “Mark needs to hear this. Fuck,  _ everybody _ needs to hear this. We were going back to the party anyway. I’m sure we can track Mark down and -”

“No, look, it’s fine.” Wesley tries to argue. “I didn’t even know Sing gave it to James anyway, so it’s doesn’t matter.” But I ignore him and his strange self-doubt (an aspect of his personality I hadn’t expected) and turn around to face Kim.

“Don’t you think Mark would fucking love this?”

Kim looks between me and Wesley for a moment, hesitating, choosing her words. She starts slowly, “Yeah, of course. I mean, they’re awesome. They’re right up his alley. And Splatt Records’ alley, for that matter.”

“It’s too late anyway, right?” Wesley counters. “Aren’t The Founders leaving town tomorrow or something?”

“Trust me, there’s always time to sign a new hit band.” I don’t understand why he’s not jumping at this chance. If I were him I’d be freaking out. If I were  _ me _ I’d be freaking out. If Primary Colours weren’t already under contract with Juno Records, I’d be begging Mark to listen to  _ our _ demo. His diffidence is a stark contrast to his lackadaisical demeanor. I’m actually at quite a loss for what to make of it. So I settle on the tried and true ‘I’m older so I know best’ and decide to take matters into my own hands. 

“Kim, why don’t you take your car, I’ll ride with Wes, and we’ll meet back up at the Sausalito party.”

Kim frowns. I see her about to argue the very valid point that we should all just ride in Kim’s car but I give her “the eyebrows”. I have very distinctive eyebrows, you see. Thick, dark, part of my Greek heritage. It’s been something of a silent code between us ever since high school; when I raise my eyebrows high enough to nearly touch my hairline it means, depending on the context,  _ I’m on this, Let me handle it,  _ or  _ Butt out. _ I’m sure that she still doesn’t understand my reasoning, but she doesn’t argue. There’s no arguing with “the eyebrows”. She reluctantly agrees and climbs out of the car. I can hear her high heel shoes clacking away against the cement. I turn back to Wesley and offer him my winning smile. Somehow, he seems less charmed this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your kudos and subscriptions! If you like what you see (or, you know, if you don't but have an idea of how it could be better) please leave a comment! Comments make me smile :D and you'll get a cookie if you do!


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Due to a scheduling conflict I'll be publishing chapters on Saturday from now on instead of Monday, so everybody gets a chapter two days early! Yay! I love and appreciate everyone who's been reading and subscribing - you keep me going :D You know what would be even cooler? Commenting! I'd love to hear from you on how you feel the story's progressing, what you like, what you don't like, what your favorite color is, anything really lol Enjoy Chapter 3, where we get to know Wesley a little better and meet someone from Kaleb's past.

**Chapter 3**

 

11:41pm

 

Kim had texted me the party’s address earlier in the night, so I copy it to Google Maps and let the comfortingly familiar synthesized voice direct Wesley to the location of the Sausalito house. Wesley begrudgingly lets the demo play to its fifth and last song and wastes no time in turning off the radio. We’d listened to the songs in silence, me offering no further compliments and Wesley making no further self-deprecating remarks. It was insanely good though. Not a single weak song out of the five. The first one was an angsty number, but the second had been  a more classical “hit” type song, emphasising the pop. The third was something of a shoegazer dream-scape guitar ramble, the fourth a quiet synth-ballad, while the fifth brought it home with a rock-centric psycho-punk raver. They may have been different but the band held a steady sound throughout, making it recognizably them, so execs would see them as diverse without thinking that they just couldn’t settle on a style. Sing clearly knew what he was doing when he chose them for the demo. I think it must have been Sing, because I can’t imagine disinterested Wesley taking the time to do it. If anything he seems  _ embarrassed _ by the band. Like it’s a side-project he never really thought anyone would get to hear, a hobby just to break up the routine, something to do on the weekends. It’s more than a little insulting. I mean, I’d kill to have his kind of talent, and he couldn’t give two craps about it. It’s like seeing your neighbor buy a car you really want and they just treat it like shit. I’m about to say something scathing to him when he suddenly decides to speak.

“You’re really serious about music, aren’t you?”

I take a moment to process the question. It seems absurd. Of course I am, it’s my  _ job _ . I make  _ money _ from this. Arguably not very much money, but still. I settle on a simple answer. “It’s my life.”

“You never wanted to do anything different?”

His insouciant tone, instead of continuing to cultivate a guise of indifference, now makes me suspect some kind of trap. I proceed carefully. “I think I wanted to be a writer for a little while. But once I put music to words I knew I couldn’t do anything else.”

He nods, studying the road ahead, his eyes inscrutable voids in the darkness. When he doesn’t say anything I try to make him elaborate. “Why? What do you want to be?”

“I want to study biochemical engineering.”

That floors me. When he’d said Stanford I knew he probably wanted to study something “grown up” and “serious”, but I never thought it’d be… I don’t know, something so brainy. Clearly he’s no slouch in the intellectual department, but I failed chemistry in high school. Twice. I’m starting to feel a little outclassed. 

I struggle to find something to say. “That sounds…” Like something I wouldn’t understand. “Complicated.”

His chuckle is deep and throaty and I have to pinch myself discreetly to stop it from turning me on. “Yes. It’s complicated. It’s also fascinating, and potentially world-changing.”

“Is that what you want? To change the world?”

“Maybe. I think I just want to make it better. Save lives, improve lives. I feel like no one around me thinks about that. Everyone I know just thinks about what’ll make  _ them _ happy. ‘What do I love?’ ‘What could I see myself doing for the rest of my life?’ No one thinks about what the world needs more of. We don’t need any more video game designers or 3D modelers or fashion bloggers or business tycoons or pet psychologists. Maybe being a pet psychologist makes you happy. That’s great. But maybe the next generation wouldn’t be as fucked up as this one if someone perfected nanotechnology to deliver radiation directly to cancer cells. If you  _ can _ do it, then you  _ should _ do it. You owe it to everyone who needs the help but can’t do it for themselves. You owe it to yourself.”

That’s more than everything I’ve heard him say put together. For a moment he let himself slip out of his unflappable facade and I saw the passionate and pained singer from the demo tape. I’d been drawn to his air of mystery, but I’m practically magnetically pulled by the fiery, opinionated boy hiding just under the surface waiting to explode. Why does he try so hard to make everyone think he doesn’t care when he cares  _ so much _ ? Who convinced him that it isn’t okay to be that way? Why is he so scared of letting other people see it? Why is he letting  _ me _ see it? 

The revelation that his outward mien is just a construct puts into stunning relief just how young he is. Only a teenager could be cripplingly insecure enough to hide who they are. It sends a fresh wave of guilt coursing through me. I’d been building it up in the back of my mind, telling myself how mature he is, how an adult couldn’t possibly take advantage of someone so self-possessed, regardless of the age on his driver’s license, trying to make it okay for me to be attracted to him, trying to formulate a defense for something I was building up the courage to do. But now I know he’s just as much a vulnerable wreck as every other adolescent. His talent and his intelligence and the fact that he’s better at hiding it than most don’t change that fact. The fact that, even despite knowing all of this, when I look at his mouth all I can think about is kissing it and when I look at his narrow shoulders all I can think about is ripping the clothes off them and pinning him under me and biting his lily white skin, makes the guilt just that much worse.

I’ve been silent too long. I know it from the way Wesley disappears behind his mask of indifference again, like his outburst never happened. It tightens something in my gut, like watching a dog shy away from your hand when you try to pet it. He opened up to me and I did nothing. I feel like the sun’s passed behind a cloud; I didn’t know how warm I’d been until it’s gone. I feel a sudden need to get it back. I do this, unwisely, by baiting him. “Maybe you  _ should _ think about what would make you happy. Isn’t part of living in the first world in the twenty-first century that you can actually  _ choose _ what you want to do with your life? It’s all very noble to want to sacrifice your own happiness for the greater good, but shouldn’t you leave the cancer curing to people who actually  _ want _ to cure cancer? Aren’t you taking away their shot at happiness by martyring yourself?”

“Who said I’m martyring myself?” Just like that his spark is back. He tears his eyes from the road to glower at me and I’ve never been so happy to see someone angry at me. “Who said I don’t  _ want _ to cure cancer?”

“I don’t know,  _ you _ did when you said that everyone just thinks about what makes them happy and not about ‘saving the world’?”

He shakes his head. “You’re twisting my words around.”

“Am I?  _ Do _ you want to cure cancer?”

“That’s besides the point!”

“That’s  _ exactly _ the point! And dodging the question just proves it. Are you happy when you make music?”

“I’m happy when I do a lot of things. What does happiness even mean, really? It’s fleeting. It’s a fucking fantasy. No one’s happy all the time. And if you are, you’re probably crazy, or a child. It’s illogical to plan your life based on something that isn’t going to last. Are  _ you _ happy all the time? You’re doing what you love, do you wake up every day, play every show, smiling like an idiot because you’re so fucking happy?”

“No, but I’m probably a lot happier most of the time than someone who’s doing something they hate. It’s not always easy, and sometimes yes, I hate it, I hate myself. But when I play a gig and everyone’s cheering their heads off and screaming for an encore, I’m the happiest motherfucker in the world. And yeah, it doesn’t last. It carries me for a couple of days, a couple of weeks. But by then I’m playing another gig or writing a song I know is going to be amazing, and I’m happy again. Because I love it and I can’t live without it. What can’t you live without, Wesley?”

“I don’t know!” His admission seems to startle him, like a deep truth he’d been trying to beat out through rehearsed mantras and noble platitudes. His grip tightens on the wheel and I see a muscle twitch in his jaw, evidence that he’s clenching his teeth. “I don’t know,” he repeats, quieter. 

I’m pleased as punch. I feel like a psychiatrist who’s just helped their patient reach an epiphany. I feel like a girl at a slumber party who’s wrenched a secret out of their best friend. More than anything I feel a sense of irrational pride because I feel like I’m the only one who knows, the only one who’s uncovered the truth under the layers of cool of untouchable Wesley Bloom. I know who he is. It’s flawed and scared and fervent and vulnerable, but it’s real. I know you, Wesley Bloom. You can’t hide from me now.

Now, for damage control. When I speak my voice is soft and understanding, and it’s not an affectation. I really do understand. “It’s okay not to know, Wes. It’s better to admit that you don’t know than lie to yourself that you do. That’s for sheeple, that’s for the masses. You’re not like that. You’re smart, you’re strong. You can handle it.” Just like Kim, I see my words getting through to him by the way his fists uncurl from around the wheel. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you to try things out, figure out who you are. That’s what your twenties are for. You don’t need to pigeon-hole yourself, you don’t need to have everything figured out before you’ve even started. It’s okay to fall down. Because you probably will. We all do. It’s better to be okay with that now, rather than fuck up down the road and think the whole world’s going to end because of it.”

The corner of his mouth tugs up, but it’s not like his smirks from before. When I hadn’t known him I thought they were genuine, amused, but compared to this smile they were shards of ice, part of a well-constructed mask. This though, this is really him. And because of it his smile is even more devastating. 

“So you think you’re pretty wise, huh?” His tease is playful, bantering, familiar. I sigh inwardly, relieved that my gamble paid off and I hadn’t pushed too far.

I play back. “Well, when you get to be my age…”

He laughs, bright and sincere. “Bones starting to give out, old man?”

“I know one bone that hasn’t given out.” Damnit! My flirtation instincts are too strong! It just slipped out before I had a chance to stop myself. I really spend way too much time in the Castro.

“It’s not a bone, you know,” Wesley replies dryly, unphased by my accidental innuendo. “And you can’t brag without proof.”

“Is that an invitation?” I can’t help it. Really, I can’t. It’s like telling a fish not to swim or hobo not to beg for change.

Wesley’s smile broadens. Jesus. And they say  _ I _ have a killer smile. Clearly they never saw the dimples on Wesley Bloom. “That depends.”

Shit shit shit. Is this happening? Am I really doing this? “On what?” Apparently I am.

“On whether or not you play your cards right.”

Aaaaand I’m hard. Fuck you, penis, I thought we had a deal! “Define ‘playing my cards right’.”

“ _ Your destination will be on the left. _ ”

Fuck you, Siri!

“Looks like we’re here.”

  
  


Sunday 12:20am

 

The party is just the way we left it. The drinks are still flowing, the joints are still being passed, the girls are dressed scantily and the boys are trying to get the girls into bed. Wesley looks weirdly at home amongst the hip crowd, more at home than he did at Cody’s around the college drop outs and professional unemployment collectors. The only looks he gets are appreciative ones, looks that say they’re calculating the best way to approach him and convince him to shed his clothes. They make me feel weirdly protective. I’m the one who brought him into this den of iniquity, I’ll be damned if I’m going to let anyone (but me) get their hands on him. 

I catch sight of Kim easily. It’s hard not to pick her blinding hair out of a crowd. It’s strange how quickly she got here though. She must know a secret shortcut that’s elluded Siri. She makes her way over to us, James and Sing already in tow. Looks like Sing snuck into the party after all. I don’t hold it against him. It’s a sick party.

His thin eyebrows shoot up when he catches sight of Wesley. “Hey, Wes. What’re you doing here?”

“Seeing the sights.” Wesley is a study in aloofness. 

“We heard the demo,” I cut in on his behalf. “We’re going to show it to Mark.”

“Kim told me. That’s really awesome of you guys. I mean it, Kay. You’re good people.”

“No way, man. We owe you that much. No offense but your music is  _ surprisingly _ good.”

Sing laughs and claps me on the shoulder. “None taken, bro. I know you guys never really took  _ Haphazardly  _ seriously.” That’s the name of their band? I’m not sure how I feel about that. I foresee a lot of misspellings in the future. Though I guess it’s better than going with the British spelling for ‘colors’. “But the music speaks for itself. Most of that’s thanks to Wes here.” He drapes his arm around Wesley’s thin shoulders, to which Wesley arches a single eyebrow. “Without him we’d just be some idiots playing instruments. His voice, his lyrics, they’re what give  _ Haphazardly  _ it’s sound. Who knew such a big voice was hiding inside this scrawny kid?” He squeezes Wesley and the latter grimaces. I bite back a laugh. 

“Come on, let’s go find Mark before he bails.” Kim, ever the levelheaded one.

“Have you seen him?” I actually can’t remember him even  _ being _ at this party. But if The Founders are here then he’s sure to be.

“Robbie’ll know.” I’d forgotten James was standing there. He has that effect. 

Sing says he saw Robbie on the back patio and as a group we troop off across the house, dodging revelers and stepping around hideous, expensive looking nouveau-minimalist furniture and decorations. 

True to form, Robbie’s on the patio, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other, holding what appears to be a captivating conversation with a petite Philipino girl whose shorts are half an inch away from being legally declared underwear. 

My stomach clenches at the sight of him. Six years and it’s like nothing’s changed. I’m still his scrawny, brooding roommate and he’s still gorgeous and straight. It’s no wonder he rose to fame in LA. Blonde hair, green eyes, perfect teeth, always just enough stubble to look cool. How does he even do that? Does it just grow that way, never turning into a beard? I don’t even know what he looks like clean shaven. 

He sees us and smiles, politely excusing himself from the girl and sauntering over to us. He doesn’t saunter, not really, but it always feels that way to me. He just has innate swagger. 

“Hey, guys.” He locks eyes with me and his smile softens. “Heya, Kay.” His smile is fond and sad at the same time. It’s how he’s looked at me ever since college, ever since my big stupid mistake of confessing my feelings and he let me down “gently” before packing off to LA and getting as far away from me as possible. His pity makes me sick. 

“Heya, Robbie.” It comes out stiff, awkward. I see Wesley studying me out of the corner of my eye. I should be grateful to Robbie, and I am. He called me up, asked me specifically to open for him at his San Francisco show. He knew it would be a big break for me and Primary Colours. And it is, it has been. We were interviewed five times before the gig. Our record’s sales went up by twenty percent. We’ve already scheduled three more shows, one at the Independent, no small fare. But I can never forget what happened. Partially because I’m still not over him, even now.

“Hey, Robbie, do you know where Mark is?” Kim’s no-nonsense voice is comforting. She’s never quite forgiven him either for the way he treated me.

“I think he’s upstairs, sipping cognac with the ‘grown ups’.” He rolls his stupid beautiful green eyes and laughs. “Why? What’s up?”

“Sing and Wesley’s band have an  _ amazing _ demo. James was supposed to give it to Mark ages ago but, you know, he’s an idiot.”

“Cheers.” James raises his beer and takes a drink.

“Sing and Wesley’s band, huh.” Robbie has no idea who Wesley is, and he only knows Sing in passing. Instead he turns to me, gaze intense and searching. “Are they good?”

I look him dead in the eyes, jaw-locked, and say, “They’re better than we are.”

Robbie nods. I bullshit about a lot of things, but I never bullshit about music, and he knows it. “Alright. If Kaleb says they’re good, than they must be pretty damn good. Come on, I’ll take you to Mark.”


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which fucking up occurs, feelings are shared, and a move is made.

**Chapter 4**

 

12:46am

 

Upstairs, the music from the party below is muted. It feels wrong being up here. Being at a party in a living room is fine, but when you’re around bedrooms and bathrooms and pictures of someone’s kids, it starts to feel like you’re invading someone’s home. Robbie stops at a closed door and knocks. “Mark, it’s me.”

“Come on in, Rob,” a deep voice calls from inside.

The room is a cozy office. The minimalist art and furnishings didn’t make their way into this room. It’s a study in mahogany and leather, the gas fireplace encasing the office in warmth, two high-backed armchairs pulled up to it where Mark, a large man in his mid-forties with a trimmed beard and fashionable glasses, sits with another gentleman. They’re holding tumblers of amber liquid and looking very grown up indeed. I suddenly feel like a kid barging in on his father while he has a business friend over. 

Mark eyes us speculatively as we all pile in and Robbie closes the door behind us. “What’s going on, Rob?”

“Sorry to intrude. Are you busy?”

“I always have time for you.” He nods to his companion. “Carlos was just about to call it a night anyway.”

“I’ve got something you need to take a listen to.” Seeing Mark’s dubious expression, Robbie insists. “Trust me. You’re going to want to hear this.”

I’m a little touched by how Robbie’s putting his ass on the line for us when he hasn’t even heard the demo. He’s just taking our word for it,  _ my _ word for it. If I’m wrong or lying, he could take a lot of shit for it. He might not get Mark to listen to anyone else’s demos, and Robbie has a lot of friends, a lot of people coming out of the woodwork now that his band’s name is the big one on the marquee. He might be blowing his only chance to help out a friend. I can’t help but wonder why he’s doing it. Could it be guilt, for the way he took off on me when I tore out my heart and laid it bare in front of him? Or does he really just trust me that much? I’m not sure I’ll ever really know the answer. But it’s twice now that I owe him. And it doesn’t feel that great being in his debt.

The office fortuitously has a killer sound system, and after Carlos departs Wesley feeds it his demo CD before stepping back, behind me, as if trying to disappear. I look at him over my shoulder and grin, giving him a thumbs up. He smiles tightly back and hangs his head, studying the fringe of the oriental rug. For three songs, ten excruciating minutes, we stand and sit in silence, listening as Wesley’s voice fills the air, alternating between begging, crooning, and shouting. I get stuck on a line I hadn’t paid attention to before, somewhere in the middle of the rambling shoegaze number. “ _ Why’d I let you touch me / Fuck me / Use me / Take it / You taker / You take everything. _ ” I can’t believe I hadn’t noticed it before. It sounds too raw to be just poetic fabrication. I wonder who he’s singing about. I wonder if whoever it was has anything to do with his protective walls of fabricated nonchalance. I feel a crazy surge of jealousy, thinking about someone else touching him, hurting him, leaving him. When had it even happened? Was it a guy? It must’ve been a guy. I don’t have the sharpest gaydar for a gay man but it’s been made pretty clear to me which way Wesley leans. I wonder if it was an older guy. Maybe even one of Cody’s friends. My jealous surge sharpens into an almost physical pain. I have to ask him. I just, I  _ have _ to. I mean, how can you not ask about lyrics like that?

My inappropriate reverie is cut short by Mark’s voice, startlingly the room at large. “That’s enough. Robbie, can you turn it off?”

My heart sinks as Robbie gets up and ejects the CD. Didn’t he like it? I mean, he was listening to the same music I was listening to, right? I’m not crazy. They’re amazing. How can he not see they’re -

“Which of you was I listening to?” He studies us each in turn from over the rim of his glasses. His eyes land on Wesley, still cowering behind me. 

Sing raises his hand like a school boy and clears his throat. “Um, me, sir. Hi, Sing Lee, guitar.” He steps forward, hand extended. Mark shakes it. “And my friend, Wesley Bloom,” he indicates with a tilt of his head. “Synthesizer and vocals. Also our friends Ellen and Toby, but they’re not here right now.”

“And what do you call yourselves?” His voice is disconcertingly even.

“Haphazardly.”

Mark seems to mull this over. He tilts his head from side to side. “I’m not crazy about the name, but we can always work on that.” Work on it? Does that mean he’s interested? “I’m not going to lie to you, Mr. Lee, it’s very rough. You have a lot of work to do.” I see Sing deflate, but he nods, keeping up a brave face, like he’s taking the critique to heart. “ _ But _ .” Every single one of us perks up. “It is very,  _ very _ promising. I don’t say that lightly. I think you really have something here.”

“Thank you, sir.” Sing is trembling with the effort to contain himself. “Thank you so much. That means a lot to us, to hear.”

“How do you feel about leaving this CD with me? We’re returning to LA tomorrow afternoon, but I could upload the mp3s and send them off to Fran and Don at Splatt in the morning. Do you think you could come by my hotel tomorrow around nine, with all the members of ‘Haphazardly’, to have a Skype call with them, see how they feel about it, maybe make a decision?”

I don’t know how Sing and Wes are feeling but I’m just about ready to faint or punch the air or dance a jig. I don’t even know  _ how _ to dance a jig! Sing’s grin threatens to split his face in half. “Oh my God. That - that’d be amazing! Of course we can, that’d be incredible! Thank you so much!”

“I’m going to level with you, Mr. Lee, Mr. Bloom. If, and I say  _ if _ , we were to move ahead with you, you would have to relocate, at least temporarily, to Los Angeles to record at Splatt’s studios. Would that be a problem for you?”

“No, not at all,” Sing is quick to answer. “I’ll fucking move to LA if I have to.” We let out varying degrees of laughter at his enthusiasm. All except Wesley.

“Alright then,” Mark concludes, standing up, by all appearances ready to leave and call it a night. Robbie hastily snaps the CD back into its case and hands it to Mark. “I believe I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Mr. Lee.” He shakes Sing’s hand again, Sing shaking Mark’s so hard it looks like he’s going to wrench it off. Mark walks over to me and for a second I think he’s coming to shake  _ my _ hand, but his eyes focus behind me and I step out of the way, letting him stand before Wesley. Wesley shakes his hand, his face oddly somber. “Mr. Bloom,” he says.

“Thank you very much, sir,” Wesley’s voice is quiet and unnaturally calm. It’s full of poise and severity and I feel my stomach contract, a terrible feeling of foreboding coming over me. “I’m honored by your interest. But I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline.”

There’s a collective gasp in the room. The silence is deafening. I don’t even hear the party downstairs anymore. We’ve been sucked into a vacuum and none of us can breathe or move. All we can do is watch in fascinated horror. Even Mark is momentarily at a loss for words.

“I’m sorry?” He finally says. He doesn’t sound offended, just flat out confused.

“I’m going to have to decline your offer,” Wesley repeats. Jesus, it’s even worse the second time. With the same eerie calm, he looks at us each of us then says, “Excuse me.” He turns on his heel, wrenches open the door and leaves.

Sing rushes forward to the dazed manager, his mouth working a mile a minute. “He didn’t mean that. We’ll meet with you. We’ll be at your hotel, tomorrow. Nine o’clock? Did you say nine o’clock?”

“Yes, that’s right. Are you sure he’s-”

“He’s fine! Trust me. He just gets cold feet sometimes. I’ll talk to him, it’ll be fine. It’s all… fine.” And then, at a loss, he grabs Mark’s hand again and shakes it vigorously. “Thank you so much for this opportunity, sir-”

I don’t stick around to listen to Sing’s grovelling. I take off after Wesley at a dead-run, dashing through the corridor, throwing myself down the stairs and nearly bowling over a group of ultra-hip socialites, just managing to catch Wesley before he makes it to the front door. I grab him forcefully by the arm and spin him around. He yanks his arm out of my grasp, positively livid. I don’t stop to consider his feelings though. He needs to hear this. He needs reality to slap him in the face like a raw sturgeon. 

“What the FUCK is wrong with you!” More than a few heads turn to look at us. I don’t bother to lower my voice. Fuck ‘em, they can all hear if they want. A show after the show, right? “What the hell do you think you’re doing!”

“What the  _ fuck _ do you care?” He spits venomously. His anger is a living thing, swarming like bees under his skin. His normally pallid complexion is bleached white with rage. “Who the fuck do you think you are? You can’t just give my demo to people -  _ my _ demo!  This is MY fucking life! You think I can just take off to LA, fuck school, throw my future away to make other people’s dreams come true? You can’t fuck with people’s lives,  _ Kaleb _ ! This isn’t a game, I’m not a fucking pet project! You think you can just show up with your stupid fucking gorgeous smiles and your stupid fucking sage advice and start telling me how to live  _ my _ life? Just because you want to fuck me doesn’t mean I’ve somehow magically become your responsibility!”

“That has nothing to do with it!” I feel my face heating up. He’s really done it now. Now I’m pissed. “I’m not just gonna stand by like a deer in fucking headlights and watch you piss your career away! Don’t you understand what kind of opportunity this is? Are you seriously going to bail on this before it’s even had a chance to start? Are you really that fucking stupid?”

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck YOU! You’re gonna throw this all way, an opportunity that half this fucking city would kill their mothers for? And for what? Fucking  _ biochemical engineering _ ? Saving the fucking world? You can’t save the world, Wesley. The world is fucked, and it’s been fucked since before you were born. The best any of us can do is hang on for dear life and make the most of it before it crashes and burns. If you don’t jump at this chance, you’re never going to get another one. Do you hear me?  _ You will  _ never _ get this chance again _ .”

“It’s my fucking-”

He was probably about to say “life” again but that’s when Sing comes barreling down the stairs and shoves gawking onlookers out of the way to get right in Wesley’s face. Sing’s anger makes Wesley’s look like mild irritance in comparison.

“What the FUCK, Wesley!” His voice is several octaves higher than I thought a human’s vocal range could rise. “Are you trying to fuck my life? Is that what you’re trying to do? Are you trying to ass fuck my life so hard that my ancestors’ asses burn? Is that what you’re trying to fucking to do? ‘Cause bra-fucking-va, mission accomplished! You’ve ass fucked my life with your little fucking prick and you came this fucking close to ruining it for fucking eternity, you selfish LITTLE BITCH!”

“Eat a dick, Sing,” Wesley snipes eloquently. “You’re a talentless fucking phony who can’t play for shit and if it weren’t for me you’d be playing guitar in the fucking BART station for pennies and used condoms-”

“YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

Sing is on him so fast I swear to God he fucking  _ blurs _ . He’s grabbed him by the front of his shirt and is swinging at him. Wesley’s putting up a good fight, blocking where he can, trying to get a kick in, but I know it’s only a matter of time before one of Sing’s blows lands, so I step forward without thinking and haul Sing back by the collar of his jacket. That’s twice tonight I’ve had to stop him from kicking someone’s ass. Only he’s resisting it more now than he did earlier. I’ve managed to get myself between him and Wesley, but Sing’s arms are still flailing. Wesley feints to the left and Sing overcompensates in his swing, while I take a step to the right and turn to keep an eye on Wes. And that’s how I end up getting that very same eye punched.

The impact sends me flying into the entrance table (I think fancy people call it a credenza), knocking over a vase full of orchids which promptly shatters on the tile floor. With the wind knocked out of me, it takes a second for the pain in my face to kick in. But when it does, boy does it kick it. I double over, clutching my eye and saying fuck repeatedly, as if the fucks might make the pain vanish. It feels like a blood vessel burst or something. Seriously, the human eye is  _ not _ meant to take this kind of damage. 

My world has shrunk down to exactly me and my body and the pain in my face, and to a lesser degree the pain in my back where it hit the table. That’s why I only notice Wes when he cups my cheek in his cool hand.

“Jesus shit,” he swears, but I can hear the anger going out of his voice like a slow leak out of a balloon. He gingerly pries my hand off my face and surveys the damage. From the way he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth I know it must look as bad as it feels. I can’t even open my eye. I hope there aren’t any lasting effects, like vision loss or something. I’ve never been punched in the face before. Not really. I once accidentally got hit in the face by a volley ball in gym class, and I was kicked by bullies a couple of times, but my face has never borne the brunt of any physical, bodily violence. Shit, those guys in  _ Fight Club _ made it look easy, fun. It’s not fucking fun. It fucking hurts.

“Alright, alright! I’m going!” I hear Sing screeching. When my uninjured eye regains focus I see a couple of big dudes hauling Sing through the open front door. Who even knew there were bodyguards here? Robbie sure is coming up in the world. 

“Kaleb? Hey, Kaleb?” Wesley’s voice is so gentle, so full of concern, that it takes me a moment to recognize it as his. My foggy vision finds him and I see his big, dark eyes wide with worry.

“Hey, Wes.” I feel more than a little dazed. I’m not even entirely sure how this happened. Had Sing hit me? He must have, those guys in Slayer shirts threw him outside. Why did he hit me? Did I say something? I couldn’t have. Sing wouldn’t hit me. Not after I went through all that trouble to bring his demo tape and - oh. The demo tape. Mark. Wesley. The idiot.

“Are you okay?” It’s so hard to stay mad at him though. Especially when he’s running his hands through my hair, tenderly smoothing it down, pushing it out of my face. I just want to close my eyes and lean into his touch. “Kaleb?”

Oh, had I not said anything? I’d meant to say something. And how did I get on this couch? I don’t remember sitting down. “I don’t know. I  _ think _ I’m okay?” Can you get a minor concussion from being socked in the face?

He doesn’t look very convinced about my current state of “okayness”, but he nods resolutely. “I’m gonna go get something to put on that. Just stay here, ok?”

He’s gone before I can tell him I don’t want him to leave. My hair feels strange now without his fingers in it. I think his fingers belong there. They’ve always belonged there and I never knew. 

Kim ducks into my field of vision. For a second I think she’s going to fawn over me, asking the same “okay” questions, and I’m all set to answer that I’m fine when I see that her expression isn’t one of concern, it’s of admonition.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The echo of my own words to Wesley ringing back at me. It takes me a second to understand that it’s  _ Kim _ saying them, and a second longer to understand what the hell she’s talking about. “I don’t know, sitting? Being in pain?” Though even as I say it I realize that the pain’s dulled. Not disappeared, but not as bad as it had been. I even try blinking it experimentally. Vision’s foggy, but at least I can see out of it. 

“No,  _ Kaleb _ . What the hell do you think you’re doing with Wesley?”

I laugh. I can’t help it. It’s the last thing I’d expected. Especially since I haven’t done anything more than care about him and try to stop him from ruining his career (in reality, anyway - in my head I’ve done all  _ kinds _ of unspeakable things to him). Her pursed lips give me pause. She’s really serious, isn’t she?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I answer levelly, holding her gaze. I can already feel my mind clearing, the sounds of the party coming back into focus, the sharp feeling of eyes on me, the steady pulse of my heart in my eyebrow. I think I might have a cut there. I’ll check as soon as I’m done with this staring contest.

“Bullshit. I know you. You know I know you. You can’t lie to me.” I’m about to argue but she doesn’t give me the chance. “He’s bad news, Kay. He’s selfish and he’s hurting and that makes him dangerous. I know you think he’s hot and brooding and damaged and I know that someone who’s more fucked up than you is just the kind of thing that gets your dick hard, but you gotta check yourself on this one. It’s not too late, ok? You haven’t finished ‘imprinting’ on him yet like a baby duckling. You can cut your losses and walk away from this one.”

I exhale testily through my nose, trying to keep from snapping at her. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. He’s nothing like-”

“Go  _ home _ , Kaleb.” She sounds so tired when she says it. Like I’ve brought her to her absolute limit and she can’t handle me anymore. It stings. “Get some sleep. When you wake up in the morning, I promise everything will be clearer. That’s all I’m asking. Just sleep on it. Will you do that for me?”

I open my mouth to say something - argue, bargain, defend Wes - but I see his shaggy head appear from behind a group of hipsters, coming towards me with a white thing clutched in his hands, and I shut my jaw with an audible click.

Kim steps back to let a breathless Wesley crouch down in front of me. He holds what I can now identify as a bag of frozen peas up to my injured eye. It’s so cold it burns and I try to jerk away but he holds me firm, pressing the peas against my face with one hand and holding the back of my head with the other. “I’m sorry I took so long, I couldn’t find anything in the fridge so I had to go down to the basement and there was an extra freezer down there and…” His voice drifts off, like it’s run out of steam, and I realize it’s because I’m staring at him. He swallows heavily and looks away, refocusing on the sweating bag of vegetables. He’s so fucking cute, his cheeks redenned from his run around the house, trying to pretend he’s anything but shy, his hair a tousled mess (more so than usual) from the earlier scuffle. And he’s so close. I can smell him again, fresh laundry and white soap. If I just leaned in a little closer, just a little bit, I could…

“Kaleb.” It’s hard to tear my eyes away from Wes, but I do. Kim is looking down at me and I hate the knowing look she gives me, like she’s caught me red handed. It pisses me off that she thinks she knows better than I do. Just because of what happened with Robbie she thinks that she’s the fucking model of stability and I’m exhibit A of dysfunctionality. Ok, she might be the most stable one of all our friends, but that doesn’t make her the all knowing, all seeing, all powerful Kim of Oz. She doesn’t know Wesley, not like I’ve gotten to know him, and he’s not dangerous, he’s confused, and he needs me. And I think I might need him. “Think about what I said.” Her words hang heavy in the air. “I’m gonna go after Sing, make sure he doesn’t fill his pockets up with rocks and throw himself into the Bay. See you guys later.” She turns and heads for the front door, Wesley calling a half-hearted “later” after her.

The second she’s out of earshot Wesley finds my eyes again with his own, making sure he has my full attention. “I’m sorry.”

I smirk at him. “What are you sorry about? You’re not the one who hit me.”

“I’m sorry for what I said to you.” When I raise my uninjured eyebrow he adds, “All of it. I didn’t mean it, I was just… I’m just fed up with everyone telling me who I am, who I’m supposed to be, what I’m supposed to do. It’s like I’m being pulled in a hundred different directions and I don’t even know which one of them is right,  _ if _ one of them is right. And you come along with your-”

“Stupid fucking gorgeous smiles?” I offer, amusement softening the harshness of the quote. But he ducks his head all the same, ashamed.

“I was just- I’m fucking freaked out, ok? I’m allowed to be freaked out. I don’t have any say in Mark listening to the demo, I don’t have any say in taking the band to the next level, It’s all happening before I can blink and I feel like my life is being taken over.” His hand is resting on the back of my neck. I don’t think he’s noticed. He doesn’t need to keep holding the peas to my face either, I’m pretty sure I can do it on my own, but I’m not about to tell him that. “I shouldn’t have lost my shit on you. I probably shouldn’t have lost my shit on Sing either, come to think of it.”

“Yeah, not the smartest move in the world. I think your exact words were ‘eat a dick’.”

He chuckles softly and I smile back, proud at my ability to brighten his mood. “Not my finest moment.”

“I should hope not.”

He laughs again before falling serious. “And... you were right.”

My eyebrows shoot up, making the semi-frozen one start throbbing all over again.

“I’ve been a fucking idiot,” he smirks at his self-deprecation and I huff a little laugh. “I don’t know if I want the rest of my life to be the band, but I should at least give it a shot. You were right when you said it’s a once in a lifetime opportunity, and I can’t throw something like that away.”

“So you’re going to do it? You’re going to go to LA?”

“I don’t know, maybe. How long could it really take to record an album? A couple of weeks? It’s not like a couple of weeks are going to ruin my GPA.” He smiles recalcitrantly. “Besides, nothing might happen after all. We’ll see what they say tomorrow, if they even want to work with me anymore.” He stops and draws his eyebrows together. “Do you think I should go apologize to Mark?”

“I think you’ve done enough damage for one night,” I laugh. “Besides, I think Sing’s sucking up might have just about fixed it.”

“I’ll text him later, say I’m sorry, and I’ll ask him about it.”

“Good thinking. You should probably stay away from him tonight, give him a chance to cool his jets.”

“He can be… explosive.”

“Pot calling the kettle black.” I nudge him with my knee and he smiles up at me, bright and honest and heart-stopping. 

“That was really brave, you know, what you did.” I cock my head to one side, confused, so he elaborates, giving the ice bag a little shake as he does so. “Taking that punch for me. You didn’t have to and I’m… grateful. For that, and for not giving up on me when it would’ve been easier to just let me walk out of here and screw myself over. It’s like you believe in me or something, _ really _ believe in me.”

“I do, Wes.” Without thinking I put my hand over his where it holds the warming peas to my cheek. His skin is smooth and cold. I watch him swallow, his eyes never leaving mine. “It’s not hard to believe in someone as amazing and… spectacularly stubborn as you.” My eyes crinkle at the corners with my grin and Wesley lets out a breathy laugh. “I couldn’t just let you walk out of here because…” It’s now or never, Kaleb. Are we really doing this? Are we going to cross the line from casual flirtation to full on come on? Are we going to get ourselves romantically involved with an underage kid (and you don’t even know how young he really is, for fuck’s sake!)? Well… Fuck it. “Because I can’t stay away from you.” Wesley’s breath hitches and I go on before I lose my nerve. “I can’t help it. I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop myself from gravitating to you. You’re like the fucking sun. I don’t know what kind of voodoo sorcery you’ve got me under but I can’t stop looking at you, I can’t stop thinking about you, and it’s taking every last ounce of my willpower to keep from kissing you right now.”

This close to him I can see that his eyes aren’t truly black. They’re grey. A very, very dark grey. I can see a ring of it just around his impossibly dilated pupils. All at once I’m struck by the fact that Robbie has never been this beautiful. Robbie can’t even hold a fucking candle to Wesley. I wonder for a moment if I can hear his heart pounding but I realize it’s my own heart hammering in my ears, drowning out the sounds of the party, the music, the talking. It all falls away and there’s nothing left in the universe but me and Wesley and my thundering heart. Wesley’s eyes fall to my mouth and he licks his lips again, like he did at Cody’s a hundred years ago, and that’s it. 

The soggy bag of peas falls to the floor with a sound like rain when Wesley lets go, my hands on his face, my lips on his. Jesus christ. His lips are so soft and when he gasps I push my tongue into his hot mouth and it’s like I’m falling, sinking, disappearing into him. I can feel his hands in my hair, his tongue pushing against mine, searching my mouth, his shaky exhale through his nose onto my cheek. All my pain’s forgotten. All existence is forgotten. He tastes sweet and fresh and delicious and I can’t get enough of him. I need more of him. How the hell did I ever think this was wrong? Nothing in my whole life has ever felt this right. God, I’m so hard. I want to touch him, I want to feel his skin, I want his legs wrapped around me, I want-

Wesley pulls back and I try to follow him, but he stops me with a hand on my chest. He’s breathing as hard as I am, his sparkling dark eyes now glazed and heavy lidded, his cheeks and neck covered in a splotchy blush, lips kiss reddened. Christ, I didn’t think he could look any more beautiful but now he’s positively sex on legs. 

“You wanna get out of here?”

His husky voice and his implication go straight to my dick. If my jeans get any tighter this zipper is going to fucking chaffe. I’m not lucid enough to consider the ramifications. The only thoughts I can string together are ‘Welsey, alone, sex, good, yes please.’ Unable to form coherent words, I nod as vigorously as I can manage.

Wesley stands with effort and I can’t help but notice the strain in his too-tight jeans. I think my mouth waters a little. He offers me his hand, I take it and let him haul me up. He doesn’t let go as we troop out of the Sausalito home. I hear crunching under my Converse and realize belatedly as we dash down the stairs outside that I’d been stepping on the glass from the broken vase. We maybe should’ve helped clean it up, but… Fuck it. I’m off to bone Wesley Bloom, motherfuckers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And sexiness ensues! If you've enjoyed the new chapter, please leave kudos or comments. You're all wonderful and you make me smile :)


	6. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Wesley takes Kaleb to the beach and fun times are had.

**Chapter 5**

 

2:08am

 

I don’t understand where Wesley’s taking us until we pull into the parking lot at Vista Point, the Golden Gate Bridge lit up in front of us like a Halloween decoration, and even then I’m sketchy on his plan. He just grins at me and tugs me along by the hand, into the whipping Bay wind, salty with sea water. We get to the fence bordering the grassy hill and he lets go of me to vault over it in two running strides, showing off his adolescent stamina and flexibility. I’m not nearly as graceful, clamoring up the chain link like a drunk opossum and landing on the other side in an inelegant heap. Wesley laughs brightly, the wind snatching it away, and he dashes off without waiting for me. When I finally manage to right myself and stretch out the kink in my shoulder, I see his shadowy form scrambling down the steep slope towards the narrow lip of beach below. This kid is crazy. I grin like a maniac and chase after him, mindful not to lose my balance and fall ass over tits into the freezing water crashing deafeningly against the rocks.

Wesley comes to a stop near the edge of the sodden sand where the surf has laid its tracks, panting and grinning. I catch up to him but I don’t slow. Instead I launch myself into him at full speed and send him sprawling into the soft sand, knocking the air out of his lungs with an “oof!” He rolls me over and sits on top of me. I grab a fistfull of sand and toss it at him. He just manages to shield his face from it. I take his brief moment of distraction to flip him back over, this time planting myself between his parted legs and pinning his wrists to the sand with my hands. We’re laughing and breathing hard and he’s struggling under me. I flatten myself on top of him and capture his mouth with my own. I can taste the sand in his mouth. 

He stops struggling and lets me rest my weight against him, bringing my crotch to his own. It’s not long before our feverish kissing has me hard again and I give my hips a lazy thrust into Wesley’s. He moans, deep and throaty, into my mouth. Fuck, I could listen to that sound for the rest of my life. I grind against him again and his legs wrap around my waist, pulling me closer, trying to fuse me into him. I detach myself from his mouth to gasp, the friction in my pants doing unspeakable things to me. I could come like this, just rutting against him like an animal. His moans are intoxicating, and the faster I grind against him the higher they get until they’re sweet little whimpers. I sink my teeth into his neck and suck, that long, slender, white neck, wanting to taste him, wanting to feel him. I need more of him. I need all of him. I need his cock. 

I shimmy down his body, pushing up his shirt to kiss and suck the skin over his taut belly. His chest is heaving, I could swear he’s shaking and I don’t think it’s from the cold. Hell, I can’t even feel the cold anymore. I undo his belt buckle and unzip his jeans, kissing the thin trail of hair disappearing under the band of his briefs. I feel Wesley grab a fistfull of my hair, tugging, and Jesus fuck if that doesn’t feel so fucking good.

I pull his dick out and he’s hard as hell, already leaking precum and I don’t hesitate to lick the bead of it off the head. Above me Wesley cries out a shaky “Sh-shit!” his hips jerking involuntarily upwards. He tastes so good. Salt and sweat and earth and copper and I swallow him fast and easily, taking him so far into my mouth my nose touches his pubes. Then I just  _ suck _ , hard, hollowing my cheeks, swallowing around him. Wesley makes a whining sound like a wounded animal, his back bowing, the hand in my hair pulling  _ hard _ , almost painfully, and I hate that it turns me on so much. Nah, I don’t hate it. I love it. I want him to pull my hair and cry my name and fuck my mouth. 

I pull off him, as far as I can without letting him go, then dig my hands into the sand under his ass and push him upwards, back into my mouth. He whines again, sounding so far gone but he gets the idea and starts rolling his hips, his dick sliding in and out my mouth, fucking my mouth like I wanted. 

It’s not long before he picks up speed, hips losing rhythm and making little, shaky, shallow thrusts, his pelvis lifted off the ground. The sounds he’s making are practically pornographic. High pitched sobs, sounds that seem more pain than pleasure, broken up by the occasional “fuck - fucking God -” and “shit - Kaleb-”

I know he’s close, I can tell by the trembling in his thighs, the way his thrusts have truly lost all semblance of rhythm. I push his hips down and decide with an evil smirk around the cock in my mouth to take pity on him and finish him off. I hold his dick in one hand and bob my head as fast as I can manage, sucking, lapping at his shaft. 

His body goes taut as a bowstring, his back arching, and he chokes out an aborted cry. My mouth fills with him, shooting down my throat, threatening to gag me, but I swallow him down, every last ounce of him. I swallow and swallow until he can’t give me anymore and his body falls limp into the sand, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.

I sit up between his spread thighs, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, stretching my jaw out. He looks wrecked. Even in the dim moonlight and the lights of the bridge, I can see his face is ablaze, his mouth hanging open, sand in his hair and clinging to his eyelashes. I’ve never wanted to fuck someone so badly in my entire life. God, I bet he’d be so fucking tight. I bet he’d scream and writhe against me, and I’d fuck him so hard, I’d fuck him until he was begging and crying and -

“Hey! Hey you there!”

Oh shit! A beam of light is spotlighting us. It takes me half a second to recognize it as a flashlight and recognize their authoritarian voice as a cop or a park ranger or, I don’t know, beach ranger or something - I’m not gonna stick around to find out which. Wesley’s already scrambled out from under me, tucking himself back in and hauling ass, not bothering to button his jeans or buckle his belt. I take off after him. 

Whoever the guy with the flashlight is, he shouts after us, but he was too far away to start with, and he doesn’t have the adrenaline of two idiot kids who won’t be caught dead fucking on the beach coursing through his veins. We pound up the scrubby slope, legs and lungs burning, and I’m much more effective at vaulting the fence this time. We hightail it back to the car, which Wes luckily left unlocked, and dive in, ducking low under the dashboard, hoping that if the “beach” ranger manages to get up the hill he’ll run right past, thinking we’ve already taken off.

For a subjective eternity all I can hear are our labored breaths and the blood rushing in my ears. Once my breathing is sufficiently under control I chance a look up through the windshield. Nothing but the Bridge, the night’s sky, and the orange glow of San Francisco in the distance. Looks like as soon as we ran the ranger felt confident that he’d scared us off. I sit up fully and Wesley follows. For a moment we just stare at each other in stunned silence before erupting in side-splitting laughter. I bang my first against the dashboard, hoots of triumph and adrenaline and nerves and everything else spilling out, filling the car with hysterical shrieks. I’ve only just managed to subdue my laughter to giggles when he crashes his mouth back into mine, quickly ravishing it with his tongue, probing it for his own taste in the back of my throat, one hand in my hair, the other reaching under my shirt to explore my chest. His hand is freezing on my bare skin and the run from the law did wonders to kill my libido, but if he keeps this up I’m going to have to attack him right here in the car. 

Wes pulls away to kiss along my jaw, stopping to bite and suckle at my ear and it sends a shiver down my spine, rekindling my loins. I groan, my hands rubbing circles across his leather-clad back.

“Don’t you think-” I try to start, but he bites down again and I gasp. I try again. “Don’t you think we should go somewhere more comfortable?” His fingers trail down to my stomach and slip under the band of my jeans. My moan is like a pleading sigh. “With a bed, preferably.”

His breath is hot against my ear. “We could go back to your place.”

Fuck, if that isn’t the greatest idea anyone has ever had in the history of ideas. But my mind hasn’t yet slipped into total lustful abandon, and a thought nags at me. “Won’t your brother - Shit, Wes -” He cups my hard on through my boxers, squeezing. One more second and I’m going to lose the ability to form coherent thoughts, so I gasp it out before I forget where I was going with this. “Won’t your brother get worried if you stay out all night?”

Wesley snorts. “Cody? He doesn’t notice jack shit when he’s shooting up.” He starts nibbling my earlobe again but his words are like a bucket of ice water. I grab him by the shoulders and push him back, looking at him hard, trying to clear my head and make sure he said what I think he said.

“What do you mean ‘when he’s shooting up’?”

Wesley doesn’t look particularly concerned, just annoyed that he can’t continue his ministrations. “You know, shooting up. Heroin. What Cody does.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He can see I’m serious and very close to freaking out, but the confusion on his face raises my hackles, setting off alarm bells. “I mean… You know, he gets high. That’s like his thing. I mean, it bugs me, but he won’t listen to me so… Didn’t you know? I thought everybody knew.”

“Wesley,” it takes every ounce of self control to stop the panic from creeping into my voice. “How long has Cody been shooting up heroin?”

Wesley’s brow furrows. “I don’t know, a couple of years maybe?”

“We’re getting out of here. We’re getting out of here right now.” I push him into back into the driver’s seat. Wesley looks lost, concerned, like I’m losing my mind. I’m already pulling out my phone though, dusting the sand off to unlock it.

“Kaleb, what’s - what’re you doing?”

“Drive, Wes. We’re going back to Cody’s.”

“What? Why?”

“Because your brother’s going to kill himself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter! But at least we finally got to see some action from the boys, amiright? *bro high fives* At least next week's chapter is roughly triple in length (and contains all the feels!!), so that's some small comfort. Thanks to everyone who's been subscribing/alerting (my AO3 and FP wires get crossed sometimes), you anonymous fans are the wind beneath my proverbial wings! You know what ELSE is awesome? Commenting/reviewing!! The first person to comment will get a 1 page preview of next week's chapter! *nudge*wink* Incentive enough for you?


	7. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they try to make him go to rehab and he says "no, no, no".

**Chapter 6**

 

3:15am

 

My palms are sweating so much it takes me three tries to dial the right number. Kim picks up on the fifth ring. She sounds exhausted. “What, Kaleb?”

I don’t waste any time. “Cody’s been using heroin. For a while.”

There’s a lengthy pause on the other end of the line, then I hear “Fucking shit.” I give her another minute to absorb the information. I don’t blame her for being shaken. One of us getting addicted to heroine again is literally her worst nightmare. When she speaks again it’s all business, her emotion tightly reined in under the surface, the strain evident. “Is he okay?”

I know what she means. “I’m not sure. I haven’t seen him since we all left earlier. Wes and I are already headed back there now.” I look at Wesley. He’s facing forward, eyes on the road, face unreadable in the glow from the dashboard. 

“Shit, Kaleb. You’re with Wesley? Did you leave the party with him?” I’m gobsmacked that she’s choosing to focus on this  _ now _ . Now when our friend could be in mortal peril.

“Yes,” I answer shortly.

I hear Kim sigh. “Fine. We’ll talk about it later. Ellen’s staying at her girlfriend’s and I think Sing went home. I don’t know where Glenn is. I’ll call them, have them meet us there. I’m heading over with James. Don’t do anything until I get there, ok?”

“Okay. I’ll see you there. And Kimmy?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s not your fault.”

She releases a shaky breath. “I know, Kay. See ya.”

She hangs up. I replace my phone in my pocket. I stare out the window unseeingly, mind racing, going over what to say, what to do, any and all episodes of  _ Intervention _ replaying in my mind. Wesley’s voice startles me.

“What’re you gonna do?”

He’s looking at me sidelong, brows knit. I don’t understand why he’s not more worried. Maybe it’s because he’s gotten used to it, maybe he doesn’t understand just how fucking dangerous it is, maybe because he didn’t live through what we lived through with Sam. Whatever the reason, he seems more concerned about me than his brother killing himself. I can’t believe I was blowing Cody’s little brother instead of breaking down his door and stopping him. I know I didn’t know, but that doesn’t make me feel any less shit about it. Adding to my profound guilt is that I have to actively stop myself from thinking about the unspeakable things I want to do to Wes. Every time I glance at his mouth I feel the memory of his lips on mine and I make myself mentally conjure up an image of Cody ODing, mouth foaming, choking on his own vomit. The struggle is real.

“We’re going to save his life.” I sound a lot more in control than I feel.

  
  


3:47am

 

Wesley finds a spot closer to Cody’s apartment this time, and we only have half a block to walk before we’re climbing the stairs and arriving at his door. I can still hear music emanating from inside but it’s far softer than it had been earlier. The “party” must be winding down. I wonder morbidly how many of those “guests” were junkies, and if there was something I should’ve noticed, somehow seen what was going on and realized the truth much earlier. Then again, if things had played out differently, I might not have met Wesley (I mean  _ really _ met him, not like when he was a kid) and we might not have ended up on the beach.

I raise a hand to the doorbell but hesitate. Since I know Kim is driving, I text James.  _ Are you guys here yet? _

Wesley gives me a curious look. I’m about to tell him that I don’t want to barge in, so many hours after we’ve left, and just hang around, arousing suspicion - if Cody suspects something he’ll bolt, that’s just how addicts are - but my phone buzzes with James’ uncharacteristically prompt reply.  _ Not yet. Kim says wait for us. _

I breathe out and I find that I’ve been holding my breath. I tuck my phone back into my jeans and lean back against the railing, both relieved that I’d been right and suddenly exhausted, the long night catching up with me. “We’re gonna wait for the others to show up first.”

Wesley nods slowly and leans against the opposite rail, folding his arms over his chest and crossing his legs at the ankles. In the weak porch light, in his leather jacket and black jeans, with the deep circles under his eyes, he looks like a classic 70’s punk rocker, the type you’d see on album covers and in zines. Even with all his insecurities, I think he might be the coolest person I know.

I pat my pockets down and come up with James’ mostly crushed, sand-filled, half-empty pack of American Spirits. I pull two out, dusting the sand off, blowing on them. I hold one out to Wes. I don’t even know if the kid smokes but it’d be rude not to offer. He takes it without hesitation, popping it into his mouth. There we are. That’s what was missing. Black jacket, black jeans, folded arms, and a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. I wish it wouldn’t be weird to pull my phone back out and take a snapshot of him. I settle instead on diving around in my pockets for a lighter. The search takes longer than I would like. When it becomes apparent that my lighter might be a casualty of our beach excursion, Wesley produces one of his own, a warn, hunter green bic lighter that he clicks on easily and holds out to me, hand cupped over one side to shield it from the breeze. At least that means he smokes semi-regularly and I’m not corrupting him in yet another way. It also means he was waiting for me to find  _ my _ lighter so I could light his cigarette for him. It’s proof of the sad state of the twenty-first century that I find that sappily romantic. I lean in close to him and the tiny flame, letting my cigarette catch. I exhale a lengthy plume of smoke just over his shoulder as he lights his own, not bothering to return to the rail behind me. 

Tendrils of smoke curl out of Wesley’s mouth as he watches me, eyes hooded in shadow, distant, haunting. I want to kiss him again so badly. I want to kiss him so much I  _ ache _ .

“Do you really think Cody’s in danger?” Wesley’s voice is smooth and dark. If I hadn’t come to know his more vulnerable side, I wouldn’t have recognized the concern lurking under his insouciance. 

“You’re a smart kid, Wes. You can’t think heroin isn’t dangerous.”

“Of course I know it’s dangerous. I knew he was hurting himself, I just never really thought…” He lapses into silence, letting his thoughts trail off. He shakes his head to clear it. “Well, we’re here now. And you’ll help him. Right?”

“We’re gonna get him help.” I wonder how much to reveal and decide to at least start with the truth. “I don’t know if Cody ever told you, but one of our friends passed when we were still in college. Well, I wasn’t, I’d dropped out, but they were. Still in school, I mean.”

“Your friend ODed.”

“Yeah.”

“Heroin.”

“Yeah.”

“I get why you guys are so freaked out.”

“Kim especially. She’s never really gotten over what happened to Sam. She feels like she was responsible somehow, like she could’ve stopped it if she’d been more aware. We knew he was using, but it didn’t seem like that big a deal. We were all using  _ something _ , you know? We just thought it was a more hardcore level of what we usually did.” I take a long drag off my cigarette and exhale up towards the flickering porch light before continuing. “We were a little worried, sure, but it was a distant, detached kind of worry, like worrying about global warming. I don’t know why she thinks she’s more responsible than the rest of us. We were all idiots, she happened to be one of those idiots. We’re either all to blame or none of us are. I don’t know why she wants to put the burden all on herself.”

Wesley frowns in thought. “Maybe… it’s easier for her to hate herself than for her to hate you.”

I choke a little on my inhale of smoke. “What do you mean?”

“She’s already lost one person she loves. If she started blaming the rest of you for what happened, she’d start hating you. Maybe she can’t stand to lose any more of you.”

I blink at him through the fog of smoke, drinking him in, his words, the way his mind works, the dichotomy of a teen wracked with self-doubt who can see things so clearly and wisely sometimes that it makes me seem shallow and slow by comparison. I can’t believe that just a handful of hours ago I didn’t know him, he was just a vague memory of a skinny kid. I suddenly can’t imagine a world without him in it. Is it normal to feel that way? Am I bordering psycho-stalker territory here? I mean, it really has only been a few hours. How much can two people get to know each other in that time? Am I just seeing what I want to see, projecting my idea of perfection onto him? Maybe Kim was right when she said I should go home and sleep on it. Maybe I’m just being sucked into a void where only Wesley exists and it’s blinding me to everything else. With time and distance and returning to my normal life, my routine, the stark light of day, would I still feel the same? Is this just one of those magical nights where anything seems possible but when the alcohol and the drugs and adrenaline have worn off you’re left feeling foolish and hungover? Is it all just going to end?

“Hey,” Wesley’s soothing voice again. His hand is on my cheek (the unharmed one), thumb rubbing soothing circles, his eyes searching mine. “He’s going to be ok.”

I laugh. It’s just too ridiculous.  _ He’s _ comforting  _ me _ about his brother’s drug abuse. Who is this kid? I don’t think about it. I don’t think about Cody, I don’t think about waking up in the morning and not knowing Wesley anymore, I don’t think about Robbie or Kim or crumbling musical careers. I duck down and kiss him. Tenderly, softly,  _ lovingly _ . His arms go around my shoulders. I can feel him pushing up on his toes to reach me. It’s fucking adorable. I love being able to tower over him. His mouth works lazily against mine, not the feverish making out of before, not exploring new territory, just enjoying each other’s taste and feel and smell. I never want to let him go. I never want to go back to reality. I want to drown in him. I want him to swallow me. I never want to have to come up for air. I want -

“Ahem.” The sound of Kim clearing her throat makes us separate, the cold shocking against my skin where Wesley used to be. I feel less whole somehow without him against me. Kim and James are at the bottom of the stairs, James looking bored, Kim looking tired and judgemental, her thin arms folded over her bulky army jacket, high-heel foot tapping against the cement. 

I take a last drag off my dwindling cigarette and toss it over the railing into the street. I raise my hand and waggle my fingers in a half-hearted wave. “Hey, Kimmy. James.”

“Oi,” James offers by way of greeting. Kim says nothing, just starts climbing the stairs, heels clack-clacking on each wooden plank. When she gets to the top she gives Wesley an uncomfortable, scrutinizing once-over. She sniffs and turns her attention to the door. She raises a little, white, purple-nail polished hand to ring the bell but Wesley cuts in. “It’s not locked, you know.” Two of us turn to look at him while James finds something fascinating in the house’s wooden siding. “It’s never locked. Cody couldn’t keep track of a pair of keys if his life depended on it.”

Kim nods at him and presses down on the door handle. The door swings open without resistance.

The apartment is just as smoky and suffocating as when we left it, though the occupants of the party seem to have dwindled down to only a handful, a pair of which are either cannibals in the process of eating each other or a necking couple - my money’s on cannibals. We shuffle into the living room, standing around awkwardly. James peels off and meanders into the kitchen. Wesley pulls out a chair at the table that could ambitiously be called the dining room table and sits, his knee jumping as his foot taps nervously. I scan the apartment but don’t catch sight of Cody’s massive form. I lean in towards Kim. “Should we wait for the others?” By which I mean Glenn and Ellen and Sing.

She answers quietly back. “I don’t know. It could be too late. Maybe we should just start. There’s enough of us here, right?”

“Sure.” Though I’m not entirely ‘sure’. I’ve never been part of an intervention before. Shouldn’t we wait until these “partiers” are gone? 

James reappears from the kitchen, beer in hand, and Kim gives him a scathing look he seems oblivious to. Kim stalks off in the direction of Cody’s bedroom and we follow her like lemmings, Wesley’s chair scraping against the wood floor as he hastily stands to trail after us.

Cody’s door is closed. Kim raps her knuckles on it smartly, three times. We stand awkwardly for a moment, none of us wanting to look at the other. She knocks again and this time we hear shuffling movement from inside. Soon Cody’s door opens a crack, his bearded face poking through. I don’t know how I didn’t notice what a wreck he is. I had just mentally filed his appearance under “career stoner” and ignored his gaunt cheeks, the normally heavy circles under his eyes practically black, his brown eyes themselves rimmed in red and bloodshot. I can even see that his usually unkempt sandy blonde hair is matted in places, threatening to turn into dreadlocks. I wonder when was the last time he even bathed.

It takes him a minute to recognize us fully, but when he does he smiles broadly and pulls the door completely open. “Hey, guys. What’s up?”

Kim doesn’t waste any time. “Can we come in for a minute? We have to talk to you about something.”

“Sure, sure. Mi casa-”

“Su casa,” I finish for him weakly. 

He grins at me glassily, clearly high. “Exactly, amigo, exactly.”

We pile inside his cramped room and Wesley, the last one in, shuts the door behind us. Cody flops down on his narrow twin bed, half nude mattress and half crumpled sheets, putting his arms comfortably behind his head. We all try to make ourselves comfortable to varying degrees, taking what limited seating we can. I take the desk chair in front of his open laptop, proudly displaying a girl’s bare breasts, and shut the computer with a loud click. James stands in a corner, leaning against a vintage  _ Dazed and Confused _ poster, sipping his beer like we’re here for a casual hang. Kim sits herself on the edge of Cody’s bed, by his feet, while Wesley perches himself on the dresser like a skittish crow. 

Cody’s looking dreamily up at the ceiling, apparently having forgotten we’re here. When Kim starts speaking he looks at her like he’s only just noticed her. “Cody, I want you to remember that we love you. More than anything. All of us - you, me, Kaleb, James, Glenn, Sing, Ellen - we’re all family. And you’d do anything for your family, wouldn’t you?”

A shadow of worry crosses Cody’s vacant face. “‘Course, Kim-ball. You know I would.”

“Exactly. And if a member of your family was hurting themselves, you’d do anything to stop them, right?”

Cody unfolds his arms from behind his head and props himself up into a sitting position, slowly coming alert. “What’s goin’ on, Kimmy?”

For once Kim struggles to find the words. Cody looks from her to me. I can’t hold his gaze and end up looking at the place where the sole of my sneaker has started to separate from the shoe. Finally, he looks at Wesley, who stares back at him with his infinite eyes, and realization begins to dawn on him.

“What are you guys doing?” But it sounds like he might already know.

Kim puts her hand on Cody’s leg, squeezing, tears already welling in her eyes. “Cody, I am so, so,  _ so _ sorry. I should’ve known. After Sam-” her voice cracks but she powers through. “I thought I’d be able to see it coming a mile away. But we got so involved, with the band, with everything, and we left you behind. I should have been here. We should have all been here. We never should have let it get this far.”

Cody’s shaking his head. He’s been shaking his head for a while, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to shake Kim’s voice out of his head. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“We  _ know _ , Cody. Okay? We know. You don’t have to lie to us. We know you’ve been shooting up. Just like Sam did. And if we don’t get you help, you’re going to  _ die _ like him. Do you understand?”

“No, Kim - fucking,  _ no _ !” His loose high is gone now and he’s tense as a feral animal ready to run. “You don’t even know what you’re talking about, ok? Yeah, I do a little smack sometimes, so what? Like you guys never did shit. Fucking Kaleb and coke, Sing and Molly - MDMA, whatever - all of you get stoned like all the fucking time and I shoot a little skag and suddenly I’m the one with a fucking problem, suddenly I’m fucking Sam. I’m not  _ Sam _ , Kim. Just ‘cause you’ve never been able to forgive yourself, because Sam did himself in ‘cause he never got over you, doesn’t mean you can - I don’t know - make amends or something by trying to what? Save me?”

“Sam did  _ not _ hurt himself because of me.” Kim’s tear-choked voice is cold as ice. “He didn’t kill himself. He had a sickness. He was an addict.”

“Yeah,  _ he _ was the fucking addict.  _ I’m _ not. I can quit whenever I want-”

My sudden burst of high-pitched laughter cuts him off. Geez, I think I have a serious problem with inappropriate laughter. Everyone turns to look at me. But it’s hilarious. Can’t any of them see how hilarious this is? “Do you know what you sound like right now?  _ I’m not an addict, I can quit whenever I want _ ,” I do a comical imitation of his deep voice. “That’s ‘addict 101’, man. I mean, haven’t you ever even seen a fucking movie? It’s always  _ I can quit whenever I want _ and  _ I only do it sometimes _ and  _ You’re the one who has a problem with me _ . If you’re gonna try to convince us you’re not a junkie, you’re gonna need some new material, man.”

Cody’s face is turning a splotchy red with barely contained rage. It’s more than a little terrifying. I’ve never seen him more than mildly annoyed and now he seems one wrong move away from exploding. I’m not sure my little outburst helped. “Fuck you, Kaleb.” His voice is low, pure venom, corroding everything it touches like acid. “You always think you’re so much better than everybody else, you think you’re so fucking deep and so fucking smart, always holding it over me like I’m some kind of retard ‘cause I failed out of school. If you’re so fucking smart how come you’re such a fucking psycho, huh?”

I’m laughing again. Where does he even get this stuff? Is this what people are like when they lash out? It’s ridiculous. “Psycho? How the hell am I a psycho?”

“I dunno, schizo - bipolar - whatever the fuck you call it so you can convince yourself you’re not just plain crazy. You’re not fooling anyone,  _ amigo _ . We all know you’re nuts. That’s all anybody talked about when you dropped out: ‘Kaleb the Queer got his little heart broken by Robbie the Cock and went totally psycho, tried to kill himself by putting a plastic bag over his head like a fucking  _ psychopath’ _ -”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” I’m not laughing anymore. I’m shaking. I can barely breathe. I don’t know if I’m about to cry or throw up. My knuckles are white where I’m gripping the edge of the desk, clinging to it like a life-line, like I can break it if I try hard enough. I regret coming here. I regret trying to help him. He doesn’t need our help. He can go ahead and choke to death for all I care. “Shut your fucking mouth. You know what happened. You were there. You fucking asshole, you know I’m manic-depressive. I’m not a psychopath. A psychopath is an emotionally stunted, violent narcissist. Read a dictionary sometime, you ignorant junkie motherfucker.”

Cody makes a move to get up, his face a solid mask of crimson fury, but Kim pushes him back down with her weirdly strong arms. “We’re trying to help you, Cody!” She cries.

“Some help!” He spits back.

“Can’t you hear yourself?” Tears have finally broken free and are starting to streak down her cheeks, drawing lines in her makeup while she wrestles Cody down to the mattress. “Can’t you hear what you’re saying? The Cody I know - the Cody I  _ love _ would never,  _ ever  _ talk to Kaleb like that, no matter what he’s said! Don’t you remember when he stayed up all night with you helping you write your term paper? Or when we all went out to Muir Beach and went skinny dipping and you nearly drowned and Kaleb was the only one who remembered those stupid CPR classes? Don’t you remember Sam’s fucking  _ funeral _ , when you were crying with snot running down your face and Kaleb drove you home and stayed with you and made you fucking soup?  _ Soup _ , Cody! Kaleb can’t even make himself toast without burning it but he made you fucking soup!”

Neither of them are struggling anymore. Kim is just sitting on top of him, crying. Cody has the decency to look ashamed. I can’t even look at him. My heart feels like it’s being squeezed by an angry dwarf. I want to sink into the floor, melt like ice, seep into the floorboards and disappear, become mist and fly away, become a rain cloud. I wish we hadn’t come here. I wish I’d never found out about Cody’s drug use. I wish I was still on the beach with Wes, kissing, fucking, lost in each other. How did such an amazing night become  _ this _ ?

“Don’t you even care about us anymore?” I don’t think I’ve ever heard Kim sound so little and scared. “Haven’t you thought about how we’d feel if we lost you? We already lost Sam. I don’t think I could stand it if I lost you too, Code. Think about Kaleb, how sensitive he is. What would he do if you died? It’d destroy him. And Ellen? She’s your best friend. How could you do that to her? What about the pact? Don’t you remember swearing the same thing we all swore - to never get addicted and to stop each other, at all costs, from doing the same?”

Cody’s voice is quiet, even. “I’m not addicted to heroin, Kimmy.”

“Bullshit, Cody!” She punches him in the arm. “How long have you even been using, huh? A couple months?”

“A couple of years,” I chime in through a clenched jaw.

“Years?!” She shrieks, looking disbelievingly first at me and then at Cody. “You’ve been using for  _ years _ and you’re not fucking addicted? I don’t care what you say, I’ve seen it before. I’ve  _ seen _ it. I know what it looks like and I’m looking right at it.”

“So what do you want me to do, Kim? Check myself into rehab or something?”

“Yes! That is exactly what I want!”

“I can’t just leave! I have things, I have friends, I-”

“What, other junkies?  _ We’re _ your friends!  _ We’re _ the ones who care about you! There’s nothing here you can’t leave behind. Ellen and George can always find another roommate, if you need a place to crash when you get out you can come stay with me and Kaleb, or Sing, or you can move back home for a bit, people do it every day! You have nothing to lose if you go but you have  _ everything _ to lose if you stay here and keep doing what you’re doing. Even if you don’t think you have a problem, even if you think you can quit on your own, just go there to dry out for a while, take a vacation, learn to macrame or something, I don’t care! But we are  _ not _ leaving here tonight if you don’t come with us and let us take you somewhere you can get help.”

Kim sniffles loudly and wipes at her face once, leaving a mascara streak across her cheek. Silence settles in. Loud, unnerving silence. Kim staring down Cody, Cody staring down Kim, me staring at them, James staring at the poster over his shoulder, Wesley staring at me. I try to give him a reassuring smile but I’m sure it comes out like a pained grimace. Kim made some of the most compelling arguments I’ve ever heard. Hell,  _ I’m _ ready to check myself into rehab at this point. But I have no idea what’s going on in Cody’s irrational drug-addled mind. I thought I knew him before coming in here, but the things he said, I didn’t even recognize him. It’s like the movie  _ The Exorcist _ , a demon possessing him making him spit obscenities and transforming him into a hideous, vindictive monster. I can’t expect that Kim’s convinced him. I can’t expect anything from him anymore.

“Okay.”

At first I think I’ve heard wrong. He can’t… He can’t have said what I think he said. Everyone else seems to have a similar reaction, even James looking at him with furrowed brows. 

“Okay,” Cody repeats, all the fight going out of him and I could swear he almost looks  _ relieved _ . “Fine. If it’ll get all of you off my back, I’ll go. They can’t cure anything, though, ‘cause I don’t  _ have a problem _ . But I’ll go.” He huffs a tired laugh. “I can’t afford this apartment anyway.”

“Oh, Cody.” Fresh tears start falling down Kim’s cheeks and she flattens herself on top of him, hugging him, kissing his cheek. “Thank you, thank you, thank you - I love you so much, Cody. We all do. You’re making the right decision - I’m so fucking proud of you -” She sobs into his shoulder. He rubs her back, smooths her hair, and for a second he looks just like his old self. The Cody I skipped classes with to get stoned and watch black and white movies at the Castro Theater. The Cody who always had a joke and could brighten any room. The Cody who tried to convince me that frogs aren’t native to California. My throat feels strangely tight, so I get up and walk the two feet over to the bed, putting my hand on his non-Kim shoulder and squeezing. 

“I love you, man.” My voice is thick with emotion. 

Cody nods but has trouble meeting my eye. “Love you too, man.” He pauses, stroking Kim’s small back. “You know I didn’t mean that shit, right?”

“I know, Code. I didn’t mean the shit I said either. I’m real proud of you, dude. You’re doing the right thing.”

James, surprising us all, walks up behind me and pats Cody awkwardly on the leg. “You’re gonna be alright, mate.”

“Thanks, James.” Cody seems moved by James’ rare display of affection. 

I feel Wesley at my back, see his shadowy form and mop of blonde hair out of the corner of my eye. “Thanks for doing this, Code.”

Cody’s face is a mix of too many emotions to accurately decipher. “You’re not gonna tell Mom, are you?”

“Nah. I got your back. You just get clean, get healthy, I’ll be there for you. All the way.”

“You’re a good kid, Wes. Did I ever tell you that?”

Wesley chuckles. “No.”

Kim is sitting up, rubbing at the mess her face has become, sniffling like mad. Cody sits himself up again too. “I’m sorry I never told you. You’re good and you’re a fucking awesome singer, and you’re way smarter than I’ll ever be. You’ll take care of yourself while I’m gone, right?”

Wesley snorts. “You’re not going to the moon, Code. You’ll just be gone for a couple of months or something.”

“But you’ll take care of yourself.”

“‘Course I will.”

“Kaleb.”

“Yeah, what’s up, Code?”

“Promise you’ll look after my kid brother when I’m not around.”

I swallow heavily, feeling the weight of guilt settle on top of me like a two hundred ton boulder. If he only knew what I’ve already done. But I force a smile and nod. Now’s not the time. “I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The feels! Sorry for last week's short chapter, but hopefully this one makes up for it. And next week's chapter is probably the longest in the entire story, filled with the most action. We'll get back to sexy times right before the proverbial shit hits the proverbial fan. Thanks for your continued readership and I'll see you next week! Keep on rockin' in the free world, my children.


	8. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things become physical, in more ways that one.

**Chapter 7**

 

4:38am

 

We leave Cody is his room to pack his belongings and “square things away” (which apparently means writing lengthy letters to Ellen and George, his other roommate who I believe I’ve only met once), and, after Kim ushers as many of the remaining guests out of the apartment as she can (minus the cannibal couple, who, now sated, seem to have fallen asleep), we settle down uncertainly about the flat. James at the “dining room table”, Wesley and myself on the couch, separated by the passed out partiers, and Kim disappearing off to the bathroom to clean up the mess that her face has become. The music, thankfully, has since been turned off, allowing me the ability to hear my own thoughts. But the danger of being able to hear your own thoughts is that then you have to deal with them. 

It looks like Cody is going to be okay now, though it still feels like he agreed too easily. If the  _ Biography _ channel has taught me anything it’s that an addict is supposed to try to escape at least once during an intervention. It’s giving me an uneasy feeling I can’t quite identify. He couldn’t have been lying to us. He seemed way too sincere for that. But his turnaround had been so fast. One second he was a hell-beast set on devouring our souls by stabbing us in our most vulnerable psychological weaknesses, the next he’s hugging us and thanking us for caring and making me promise to take care of his little brother. Are sudden mood swings part of being a junkie? Am I just being paranoid? Am I just feeling guilty for fucking my drug-addicted friend’s underage brother? Well, I haven’t  _ technically _ fucked him. Just come very, very close to fucking. 

I convince myself that that must be it. I’m projecting. Cody must have known already that he had a problem, he just didn’t want to admit it or was ashamed to ask for help or something, and us coming around was both a wake-up call and a relief. Relief that he wouldn’t have to admit to us that he fell into the same trap as Sam, even after we all saw what had happened to him, even after we all swore that pact. In a way, our intervention must’ve been like permission, so that he can finally get help. I’m sure that’s what it was. And not some kind of strangely well-acted ploy to get our guards down so he can sneak out the window, hitchhike out of town, and never be seen again. Drugs or not, I really don’t think Cody would be capable of that. He’s just too lazy.

I feel restless, my hands too empty, Wesley too close and too far away. I stand up and head to the kitchen to see if there are any beers left. If James can indulge, so I can I. Hey, I’ve had a rough day - night - whatever, just because I’m here to take a friend to rehab doesn’t mean I’ve suddenly joined the priesthood. Priests can’t drink, right? I’ve only just popped the cap on the second-to-last Coors in the fridge when I feel something press against my lower back. I jump and swivel to find Wesley crowding me up against the fridge, my back knocking off a few novelty magnets as he pushes me into it. His eyes are impenetrable black holes, his lips quirked in his permanent smirk, his hands on my hips, rubbing down my thighs. I swallow heavily, unable to look away from his hungry gaze, unable to stop the blood from draining out of my body and settling in my groin. This feels worse than inappropriate. This feels  _ sacrilegious _ . Even if he weren’t a minor, even if my friends weren’t right outside, we  _ just _ finished convincing his brother to pack his shit and get his ass to rehab, this is really,  _ really _ not the fucking time for -

“How ever shall we pass the time?” Wesley’s breath is hot on my ear, his teeth teasing my earlobe, his kisses against the pulse point of my neck, his nose in my hair. Fuck. My knees go weak. I don’t remember putting down my beer or bringing my hands up to Wesley’s back or pushing them under the hem of his shirt to feel his skin, feverishly hot. Wesley pushes his leg between my thighs and I grind unconsciously against him, letting out an involuntary whimper. Wes chuckles darkly against my throat. “I think I know a place -” He says between kisses and licks, “With a bed - where we can make ourselves comfortable.”

I know I shouldn’t. Not ever, and certainly not  _ now _ , but he’s intoxicating, hypnotizing, working some kind of sex voodoo and fuck it, I’ve already fucked up so much tonight, what’s one more time? I nod mutely, incapable of forming words at the thought of being on a bed, in a room, alone, with Wes. 

Wesley languidly detaches himself from me, grabbing my hand and leading me out of the kitchen. He pokes his head into the living room first, apparently making sure the coast is clear, I’m not really sure, my mind is mostly taken up with thoughts of him naked and writhing underneath me. The apartment is deserted except for the sleeping pair on the couch - Kim still in the bathroom, James probably outside smoking a cigarette - and I let Wesley take me to a room whose door opens off the living room. As soon as I shut the door behind myself and press the lock down I can easily guess whose room it is. It looks like it was decorated by the teenage manager of a Hot Topic, a study in chains and black and plaid and posters of bands who wear eyeliner that haven’t been cool since 2003, and even then their coolness was debatable. This could only be the bedroom of the chronically-celibate, proto-goth George. I laugh at the incongruous lava-lamp in a corner of the distressed-metal desk, currently the room’s only light source. I walk over to it and bend over to stare with dreamy fascination at the zoetic yellow blobs as they swim and sink in bloody red liquid. Whenever I see a lava-lamp I always think  _ Shit, why don’t I have a lava lamp? _

Wesley’s arms circle my waist from behind and I straighten, pushing back against him. I feel his hard-on against my ass and smile, a wave of lust washing over me. This was a good decision. “Won’t George mind that we’re using his room?” 

Wesley presses his forehead against my back, between my shoulder blades. I can feel his breath through the thin fabric of my shirt. “He works the night shift at some… You know, I don’t actually know where he works?” 

I laugh, turning myself in his arms. I cup his jaw and tilt his face up, his beauty unreal in the red glow of the lamp. God, I want him. I kiss him open mouthed and he meets me readily, pushing cutely up on his toes to reach me, and fuck, I can’t even handle it anymore, when he does that - shit. I pick him up easily and toss him on the black sheeted bed like a ragdoll. He bounces once, his legs falling open, and I lay myself between them, covering his thin body with my own, taking his hands and pinning them above his head. I ravish his mouth, rutting down into him, making him groan against my tongue. Fuck, we’re wearing way too many clothes. I need to feel him, all of him, I need his skin against my skin, I need to taste him. 

I sit up to roughly pull off his jacket, followed by his black T-shirt. Wes struggles to pull off my shirt while I undo his jeans. Our simultaneous efforts are ineffective, so I pull my own shirt over my head and Wesley pushes his jeans and briefs down together to his ankles. I’m unbuttoning my jeans, the chore made near impossible by my trembling, sweat-slicked hands, when I see Wesley trying to contort himself to untie his Doc Martens without getting out from under me. He is so impossibly cute. I breathe out a laugh and kiss him before climbing down the bed and pulling his boots off, followed by the tangle of his pants and underwear. 

I kiss my way up his leg, up the inside of his thigh and I hear him giggle above me, body spasming. He’s ticklish. How utterly fucking adorable. I look up at him, his dark eyes glazed, mouth quirked in a lazy grin, the shadows settling in his dimples. And he’s naked. Really naked. I let my eyes rake over his body, thin and ghostly white against the black sheets, his flat chest and jutting ribs rising and falling with heavy breaths, cock red and swollen against his taut belly, long pale legs splayed indecently. I want to make him come. I want to make him come screaming my name. I want to make him come so hard he blacks out. I want to ruin him. I want to fuck him so hard he’ll feel my cock inside him for days. I want to fuck him so hard he won’t be able to sit down. I’ve never wanted to fuck anyone so badly in my entire life. Not even Robbie. 

My shaking hands finnish unzipping my jeans and I scramble out of them and my boxers and kick off my sneakers all in one inelegant, desperate motion. I climb on top of him, planting searing kisses on his mouth, his neck, his chest, licking and biting and sucking and tasting the salt on his skin, the grains of sand still clinging to him, smelling white soap and sweat and the sea. One of his arms is hugging my shoulders, the other squeezing my ass and raking his blunt nails across my skin. I moan into his neck. I bring my hand up to my mouth (should I be worried that I’m shaking so much?) and lick a stripe across my palm before shoving it between us to fist his dick and start pumping, slow and teasing, pausing to push my thumb against the slit. Wesley bucks his hips up into my hand, gasping and whimpering, his nails digging painfully into my skin. I lick and kiss my way down his collarbone, to his hard chest, and capture one of his soft pink nipples in my mouth, sucking hard. 

“F-fuuuuck-” Wesley whines, head thrown back. I grin against his skin, speed up the rhythm of my wrist and bite down on his sensitive flesh just painfully enough. Wesley writhes under me (just like I dreamed), making a high-pitched sound like a strangled yelp. If I just jacked him off a little faster, if I licked and sucked and bit his nipples raw, I could make him come so good. But I want to - I have to - I  _ need _ to fuck him. I need to be inside him, I -

I realize with a jolt, cutting through my lust haze, that he might not have done this before. That he could be - jesus, he could be a  _ virgin _ . He’s only a teenager. I didn’t lose my virginity until I was twenty. Not that I wouldn’t be totally down to pop that cherry because  _ fuuuuck _ , but I have to know, I just-

I slow my hand on his dick until I’m really just holding it, squeezing gently, and lift myself to kiss his swollen lips, softly, lazily. I nuzzle against his ear, making sure not to startle or insult him, and ask quietly, “Have you done this before?”

“M-what?” I can’t help but beam with pride at the way he already sounds wrecked.

“Have you ever… y’know…” I’m clearly not at my most eloquent, but what can you do? I have a smokin’ hot guy naked under me, his erection still in my fist, clearly my brain is not functioning at full capacity.

“Have I ever had sex before?” Wesley snorts. “Of course, what am I, a Jonas Brother?”

I let my thumb idly ghost over the head of his cock and take pleasure in his gasp. “Have you… with a guy…”

“Yeah,” he breathes out, and for a moment I’m not sure if he’s just announcing his approval of my ministrations or if he’s answering my question. 

Then my traitorous memory recalls that song, with those lyrics, and I can’t help myself, the surge of jealously prickling my insides. “Was it… the guy from the song?”

“What song?” He turns to face me. My hand’s finally released him, resting on his flat belly now. Wesley answers his own question with another question. “ _ Car crash _ ?” When he doesn’t see the recognition in my face he begins to sing quietly, “ _ I can’t sleep / I can’t see / I can’t stop / The vomiting / Why’d I let you touch me / Fuck me / Use me / Take it / You taker / You take everything. _ ”

His voice was breathy where it would’ve otherwise been shouting but the verse has left me slack-jawed. It’d been so hard to reconcile his deep, rich speaking voice with his high singing voice, but hearing the lyrics come pouring out of his mouth easy and melodious, it’s just the most natural thing in the world. How could I have ever heard that music without imagining Wesley’s face, far away and dreamy, singing the words?

It takes me a moment to regain myself, stamping down the most bizarre feeling of being star-struck. When I do I only say, as casually as I can manage, “That’s the one.”

Wesley isn’t looking at me, focusing instead on the lava-lamp over my shoulder, his eyelashes brushing his high cheekbones. His voice is flat when he says, “Yeah. That was the guy.”

I know that look, and that feeling, so I kiss him crushingly, holding his face in my hands, and say against his lips, “Fuck that guy.”

Wesley laughs, his breath hot on my skin. “Yeah, fuck that guy.” His arms encircle me again and he licks at the corner of his lips, his voice dropping an octave when he says, “And fuck me too.”

I hear a growl escape from the back of my throat, an animalistic noise I’ve never heard myself make. “God, am I gonna fuck your brains out.” I don’t even recognize my own voice, dark and hungry and raw.

He inhales sharply and jaggedly. “Then fucking do it, Kaleb.” He rolls my name on his tongue and it sounds like sex and magic and fuck, where is there lube? 

I kiss him, sucking his full, soft bottom lip into my mouth, biting and making him gasp then let go, planting a chaste kiss on his swollen lips, breathing, “Wait here.”

I scramble off the bed and fumble through the clothes on the floor, trying to find my pants, and my wallet, and the wonderful condom and little packet of complimentary lube I keep there for just such an occasion. I tear open the condom and lube packets simultaneously with my teeth (a bold move) and I already have the condom rolled down my painfully hard cock before I retake my position between Wesley’s legs. I push his thighs as far apart as they’ll go and then push his knees back until they nearly hit his shoulders. He already has his hands fisted in the sheets in anticipation. Normally I’d warm the lube in my hands but there really isn’t that much and I don’t want any to go to waste. He might’ve done this before but he’s still small-ish and young and I’m (not bragging, seriously, it’s just a fact) pretty big, so we’ll need all the artificial lubrication we can get. I squeeze out a generous amount on his entrance and hear him hiss at the cold. I rub it in and hear him hiss for a different reason. I put a hand on his stomach, for comfort, to keep him still, and start slowly easing a finger in. Holy shit he’s tight. I see his grip tighten on the sheets, the flush on his chest deepening and fracturing into red splotches. I push my finger in as far as the knuckle and make small circular motions, trying to loosen him, work him open. His breath hitches and his eyes squeeze shut. I let my finger slip in and out of him a few times before adding a second finger. A whimper escapes him and I can’t help but see his pinched face, eyebrows drawn tightly together. I don’t remove my fingers but I duck down to kiss him sweetly on the mouth. 

“Relax, baby,” I whisper to him. He kisses me back, needy and desperate. With his tongue in my mouth I push my fingers farther, easing into him, slowly, carefully. When I can’t go any farther I twist them inside him, searching for the tight little bundle of nerves. I feel it at the same time he does. I know this because he makes a sound like a pained sob and arches his back high off the mattress. God, I have never seen anything sexier. I jerk my fingers again and watch him writhe, head thrown back, babbling words like “f-fuck - Kaleb - jesus - shit -” between gasps. I start pushing in and out of him, touching his prostate every time. His hips start to match my rhythm and before I know it I don’t have to move my wrist at all, he’s just fucking himself on my fingers. 

I groan and bite into his neck, right on those gorgeous freckles or beauty spots or whatever the fuck. “Holy shit, you’re so fucking sexy, Wes,” I breathe into his skin. 

“Fuck - Kaleb - stop, I’m gon- I’m gonna come-” 

That just goes right to my dick, leaking precum into the condom. Sweet jesus. I pull my fingers out of him so fast I know it probably stings but shit, I can’t anymore. I need to be inside him. I need him. I need him.

I throw his legs over my shoulders and empty the rest of the lube packet onto my cock and his raw, ready, fucking tight ass. I line up and am about to sink into him when I stop. It takes so much effort but I have to. I need to know this is okay. I need to know it’s okay for me to do this. I need his absolute consent. Yes, he’s a fucking mature kid but he’s a kid and I need to hear the words. I lean down to kiss him again, practically bending him in half, and ask, “Can I…?”

“What the fuck do you think?” He growls, impatient, his hands on my neck, my hair falling into his face, shielding it like a black curtain.

“Tell me I can.”

He looks me dead in the eyes and says, “You have my express permission to fuck the daylights out of me. Now fucking do it before I finish it off mys- aaahhn fuuuuck-!”

His cry dies off into whimpers as I sink deeper into him. Jesus he’s so fucking hot and tight and it’s so fucking good I want to slam into him, I want to bury myself up to the hilt in one sharp thrust. But I can’t, I have to go slow and it’s absolute torture. He’s clenched so tight. When I’m halfway in I stop and cup his chin in my hand. His face is absolute agony. 

“H-hey.” I can’t keep the shake out of my voice. My whole body’s trembling with the effort to keep still and not fuck him from here to Sunday. “Hey. Look at me.”

His eyes stay squeezed shut. “It hurts,” he manages through clenched teeth.

“I know. Relax. Come on, baby. Relax.” I kiss him softly. “It’s okay. I’ll make you feel so good, baby. Just relax.” My hand finds his softening cock and I tug on him until he stiffens again, until the tension goes out of his jaw and he moans. My hips rock forward against my will, shoving deeper into him. He feels so good. He’s everything I ever dreamed. I need to move, I need to - I make sure to keep pumping him while I slide forward, inch by excruciating inch until I’m buried inside him. I rest my weight on his thighs, panting, and release a pent up sob, feeling him pulse around my dick, his wet heat, his tight fucking beautiful ass. 

“Fuuuck, Kaleb,” he whines and I snap, pulling out of him and thrusting back in, harder and faster than I should but I just can’t - I have to - 

“Jesus Christ, Wes,” I cry, my hips rolling into him, my cock spreading him and tearing him apart. I remember myself and lift his hips up off the bed so I can angle upwards and hit-

Wesley’s cry is more of a scream, his arms flying above his head to grip the edge of the mattress. I don’t give him a chance to recover. I thrust into him again and again, hitting his prostate every single time until my body’s thrumming and he’s practically sobbing, babbling incoherent nonsense broken by the occasional “fuck” and “Kaleb”. 

But it’s not enough. I need more of him. I need all of him. I lift him until he’s sitting in my lap, speared by my cock, then I hold his slim hips, one arm around his waist, and start fucking up into him, lifting him and bringing him down onto me, so hard I can hear our bodies slapping together. I bury my face in the crook of his neck and moan and cry and say stupid things like “Jesus - baby - oh fuck - Wes - fuck - so good - baby -”

Wesley has his arms wrapped painfully tight around my shoulders, his head thrown back as his cries devolve into gasps and whimpers and strangled sobs. 

I try to thrust faster, lift and drop him harder, feeling the tightness in my gut, the pulsing in my balls, and I know I’m close, I’m so close.

I toss Wes down onto the mattress again and let myself go, hammering into him with abandon, moaning and crying out. I start to lose all sense of rhythm and my thrusts become shallow, jerking. My body’s on fire. God, it’s so good - he’s so good - I - fuck - “Jesus - Wes, I - I’m -”

Wes makes a sound like a dying thing and I feel hot liquid on my stomach, on my chest, and he’s tightening around me, so hard, so tight, I- “Fuuuuuck-”

My orgasm slams through me so hard it’s like everything I am is being poured out of me, leaving me boneless and tingling and seeing stars and I thrust into him once, twice, and fall on top of him, my whole weight, panting and gasping and trying to swallow gulps of air. I’m a slick sweaty mess, or maybe that’s Wesley, I can’t even tell anymore. I don’t know where I end and he begins. We’re just one big, hot, sweaty, tangled mess of limbs and pounding hearts and come. 

I cradle his head in head in my hands and messily kiss his jaw, his cheek, until I find his mouth and our kiss is sloppy and gross and wonderful. “God, Wes,” I pant. “You’re so - fuck, you’re so-”

“I know,” he says, chest still heaving. “You too.”

I realize belatedly that I’m still inside him and pull out gingerly, though he still winces when I do. I tie off the condom and toss it in the direction I assume there’s a trash can and fall back onto the bed, happy and drained and, at long last, completely and entirely and deliciously exhausted. Wesley rolls over and drapes himself across me, resting his cheek on my shoulder. I wrap my arms around him and squeeze him tight, loving the way his body fits so perfectly against mine, like two puzzle pieces coming together. My eyes close heavily and I can feel sleep clawing at me, threatening to pull me under. That wouldn’t be such a bad thing, would it? Just a little sleep. Just for a little while. I’ve earned it. Shit, I’m so fucking happy and tired and satisfied right now. The sound of music filters through my sleepy mind. At first I think it’s in my head but then I realize that at some point someone put the music back on in the living room. Well, that’s a stroke of good luck. In the heat of the moment our volume had entirely slipped my mind but now that I think about it we were pretty fucking loud. If it hadn’t been for the mysterious music angel we probably would’ve been caught.

“I’m gonna be so fucking sore tomorrow,” I hear Wesley murmur.

I don’t have the energy to laugh so I exhale in a laughing manner through my nose. “Awesome.”

Wesley makes a similar laughing exhalation. “I’m so glad I ran into you tonight.”

“Me too.” I don’t bother stifling my yawn.

“I can’t believe you finally noticed me.”

“Mm.” Then I let his words sink in and I ask, “What?”

“You know, ‘cause I was always following you around with puppy dog eyes and you-” here he yawns. “-never even noticed me.”

“You… what now?”

“I had the biggest fucking crush on you.”

“ _ Seriously _ ?” I manage a laugh at that. This irony is just delectable.

“Hell yeah. You were my brother’s cool, dark, brooding, mysterious friend. I thought you were a rock star.” His fingers are tracing an abstract pattern on my chest. “Then you stopped hanging around Cody as much, and I stopped seeing you and-” He shrugs. “I guess I forgot about you, or tried to. That stupid thing with Tyler happened and, whatever. It’s over now. Then, tonight, you sat right next to me, and you didn’t even recognize me.”

“‘Cause you got hot,” I say before I can stop myself. My post-climax filter isn’t really what it should be, as in it doesn’t exist. But Wesley just chuckles, breath ghosting across my skin.

“I guess so.”

“You grew up, too,” I amend.

“Enough to not be jailbait, huh?”

I grin. “Oh, you’re still jailbait. I’m just willing to risk jail for the opportunity to tap this ass.”

Wesley laughs louder. “That’s all I am to you, huh? A hot piece of tail?”

“You bet, hot stuff. You’re my boy toy now.” I pull him fully on top of me and kiss him wetly and sleepily and contentedly. When Wesley pulls up for air his face is soft and tender and he says quietly, “Kaleb, I think I-”

“What the actual fuck is this!”

I hadn’t heard the door open - I don’t even know  _ how  _ the door opened, I fucking locked it - and we’re momentarily blinded by the overhead light turning on. I’m already scrambling out of the bed before my eyes have fully adjusted, reaching in the direction I think my pants are. When I can finally see again I realize with profound relief that it’s only George, overweight and covered in bits of metal of varying sizes, his white and black makeup streaked from sweat, probably from the walk up all seven of the stairs. He is  _ livid _ . He picks up something, a book or a small box or something - I really can’t tell it all happens so fast - and throws it at us. I duck but it hits Wesley square in the forehead. “Ow! Fuck!”

That’s it. Nobody fucks with Wesley. I pick up the thing (a fucking dictionary?) and toss it back at him, hitting him in his broad stomach. “The fuck’s the matter with you!” I yell at him.

He doubles over, face going red under his Halloween paint. He’s practically shrieking when he shouts at me. “The fuck’s the matter with me? The fuck’s the matter with YOU! You’re in MY fucking room! Get the fuck out! GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY ROOM!”

There’s no way the entire apartment didn’t hear that. I go rigid. I start to open my mouth to say something, anything, but before I know it Cody’s massive form is filling the doorframe, trying to push past George.

“What the fuck is going-”

I’m frozen, like a deer in headlights. This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, this can’t be happening. For an agonizing eternity everything is still, immobile like a frame of film, me still half-off the bed, jeans clutched in one hand, Wesley covering his privates with a fistful of blankets and one hand to the bruise on his forehead, George hunched over, clutching his stomach, and Cody standing there wide-eyed and slack-jawed, taking in the scene in front of him, the gears in his mind refusing to to turn, refusing to accept what he’s seeing, and all I can hear is the hammering of my heart in my ears. There’s no use in saying it isn’t what it looks like. It’s exactly what it looks like. There’s nothing I could say or do to change his perspective of what this looks like. He’s caught me. And it’s over.

Kim and James come to a grinding halt behind Cody, craning their necks to see inside, Kim gasps, and just like that time starts moving again. Cody’s face floods instantly with blood, his face turning into a mask of rage so profound it makes his earlier anger seem like foreplay. He takes one stumbling step forward, his hands curled into shaking fists at his sides. I hold up a hand like a shield, like I’m trying to placate a dangerous animal, and scuttle backwards on the bed, unintentionally closer to Wesley.

“Whoa - whoa - whoa - Cody - let’s just talk about this - please, I can -” I was going to say “explain” but that seems pretty fucking pointless at this juncture. 

“You fucking…” His voice is low and dangerous and I can see the veins bulging in his neck. “You fucking…  _ bastard _ \- you fucking faggot bastard -”

“Whoa, Cody!” Kim steps in. “Look, you’re upset, let’s all just sit down and-” She’d placed a hand on his arm but he shakes her off so violently that she stumbles and hits the desk painfully with her hip, yelping out.

“Hey!” I start, incensed that he would hurt her, but he’s talking again, coming closer with every word.

“He’s just a  _ kid _ , you freak - he’s sixteen years old-”

My head whips around to Wesley, eyes going wide. But Wesley, blanched an impossible shade of white, stutters, “Seven-seventeen-! I’m seventeen! My birthday was last week! I  _ swear _ , Kaleb - I wouldn’t-”

“He’s a fucking CHILD!” Cody roars, finally losing it completely and diving for me. I throw myself off the bed away from him and make a run for the door. “YOU FUCKING CHILD-MOLESTING FUCK!” 

I’m nearly at the door when he catches up to me and yanks my arm back so hard I think it’s going to be pulled out of its socket. I cry out in pain and hear Wesley scream, “Stop it! Cody, please!”

I kick Cody as hard as I can in the shin and when his grasp loosens a fraction I pull my arm free, searing pain running from my shoulder to my fingertips, shove James out of the way and run into the living room. I can’t leave, I’m naked (Jesus I wish I wasn’t naked right now), but I can at least get somewhere safe, like the bathroom. But my brief moment of indecision cost me and I only narrowly avoid getting clocked in the back of the head. I leap over the back of the couch and grab a pillow, to at least have  _ something _ to hold in front of my junk while we run around the apartment like a bad Benny Hill sketch. 

“You motherfucker!” Cody is shouting, chasing me to the table where I knock over a chair to get in his path but he just kicks it and sends it splintering against the wall. “You were supposed to be my friend!”

“I AM your friend!” I call out, chucking a paperback book off a shelf at him. It goes wide and hits the clock, knocking it down and shattering it.

“Some fucking friend! You come here - into my home - and tell me I have a  _ problem _ ? You tell me to go to rehab when you’re fucking my baby brother behind my back?” He nearly grabs me again and I only avoid it by swiveling around and socking him hard in the chest. But Cody’s massive and hopped up on adrenaline and it doesn’t do any damage beyond slow him down a fraction. 

I take the small opportunity this affords me and dive for the bathroom, hopping over a beanbag and calling over my shoulder, “It’s not like that! I swear to God - It just happened - and you -”

He gained on me fast and before I know it he has my bare shoulders in a bruising grip, trying to turn me around, probably to get a good punch in to my face. “Is that why you wanted to send me off? ‘Cause you needed me out of the way so you could  _ fuck _ my  _ sixteen year-old _ brother, you piece of shit!”

“Seventeen!”I argue. I’m struggling so hard to get out of his grip that I’m sweating. Hopefully I’m sweating enough to become slippery as an eel and make my escape. I try to elbow him and kick him but few of my thrusts land, and even when they do it’s like he’s made out of rock and I end up hurting myself more than I hurt him. But at least I’m giving him a run for his money, he’s struggling as much as I am to keep me in his grip and to make me face him. “Cody  _ please _ \- you don’t - you don’t understand - it’s not like that - he’s - he’s so much  _ more _ \- and I - would you please _ listen to me _ -”

That’s when everything goes black. Immediately after, stars burst in front of my eyes in a kaleidoscope of color, followed by the most excruciating pain I can ever remember experiencing, so intense that I can’t even tell where it’s coming from, I just crumble to the ground, howling so loud it echoes off the walls back at me through the ringing in my ears. Two things happen for me at the same time: 1) I feel arms go around me and 2) the pain solidifies into a single, horrible location, blossoming out from the center of my face. I put my hands up to it and I feel something hot and wet covering my fingers, dripping down my wrists, splattering to the floor. I try to open my eyes to look but I realize with horror that my eyes are already open and I simply can’t see. Before I start to panic my vision begins to clear. Everything is fuzzy, but at least I can make out shapes and colors. And speaking of colors, my hands are coated in red. It takes my brain a startlingly long time to make the connection that it’s blood, that I’m bleeding, profusely, all over the place. I don’t dare touch my nose. It feels like it’s being beaten over and over again by a small, sharp rock. It  _ has _ to be broken, it just has to be. A sound cutting through the ringing in my head. I think it’s Wesley’s voice. Slowly, I start to make sense of the words.

“-could you! You son of a bitch! He’s your  _ friend _ !” His voice is thick. Is he crying? He can’t be crying. Wesley doesn’t cry. He’s cool. He’s a rock star. Rock stars don’t cry.

“He’s not my fucking friend!” A booming voice, from somewhere above me. I realize with a shudder that it’s Cody. That Cody destroyed my face. Because I fucked his brother. My head is starting to clear up as the memories flood back to me, but I wish it wouldn’t. I wish I could just pass out from the pain and wake up tomorrow, when everything’s passed and everyone is sorry and Cody’s safely in rehab. Shit, will he even go now? Did I just fuck everything up? For real this time? “He fucking  _ touched _ you, Wes! You’re just a kid-”

“I’m not a fucking kid!” I still can’t see clearly yet, but I know for sure now that Wesley’s crying, the cracking in his voice gives it away. “I’m almost out of high school! I’m not a fucking  _ virgin _ ! I asked him to - I  _ wanted _ him to-”

“I don’t give a shit what you want! It’s against the fucking  _ law _ , Wesley! For a  _ reason _ ! You’re just a kid and you don’t know what you want and  _ he _ should’ve known better than to take advantage of a little kid’s crush-”

“I fucking  _ love _ him, Cody! For fuck’s sake, I-” He chokes and sobs, burying his face in my shoulder and for a second I’d almost forgotten I was here. It was like I was having a fever dream where all that existed was agonizing pain and two shouting, disembodied voices. 

“You don’t know WHAT you fucking want, God damnit!” I hear a shallow, thudding sound. Maybe Cody kicked something, maybe he threw something. I feel Wesley flinch against me. “‘Do I wanna be a doctor’, ‘do I wanna be a computer hacker’, ‘do I even wanna go to college? Maybe I should just start a fucking band and become a douchebag like the rest of our friends’! You can’t even make up your fucking mind! How the hell are you supposed to know that you’re in love with this piece of shit!”

“Cody, please!” But it isn’t Wesley, it’s Kim. I can just make out her green hair and the white oval of her face. “Be rational for one second, okay?  _ One _ second! He’s seventeen years old. We were  _ all _ having sex at his age, some of us with people that were way older. I even had a boyfriend who was twenty-three.”

“I slept with my professor.” It takes me a second to recognize the voice, but the accent is unmistakable. Fucking  _ James _ is standing up for me? “She was twenty-nine. No regrets.”

“See?” Kim rallies, even though we should all probably grill James about that later. “It’s perfectly normal! As long as it was consensual, and it looks like it was  _ really _ consensual - I mean, look at them - then there’s no problem. Okay? So let’s just all calm down and sit and have a talk about this.”

“How can you guys stand up for him! How can you take his side? I fucking  _ caught _ him in  _ bed _ with my  _ very underage _ brother! And you’re just standing around acting like I’m the one who’s some kind of monster! If anyone’s the monster here it’s  _ him _ !”

“Well, you did break his face,” says another voice, and this one I really can’t place.

“ _ You _ ? Are you fucking kidding me? Even  _ you _ , George?”

Shit, really? Fucking  _ George _ is sticking up for me now? I must be more likeable than I thought. Either that or I look as bad as I feel and it’s freaking everybody the shit out. That option is not appealing.

“Fuck you guys!” Cody roars. “Fuck all of you! You’re sick! You’re traitors! Every last fucking one of you! You fucking perverts!” His insults and curses grow quieter until I hear a deafening slam. At first I think he’s left the apartment, but when I don’t hear anyone run after him I know he must’ve just holed up in his room or something. No matter how angry he is, I can’t imagine Kim letting a known heroin addict abscond into the night. Or morning. Whatever fucking day this is. Jesus it’s been a long night.

I see the blur of Kim’s hair come closer until I can make out her fuzzy features, her face tired looking, scrubbed clean of all traces of makeup, etched in concern. “Heeey,” she coos softly, like she’s about to pick up a wounded baby bird. “Hey, Kaleb? You doing okay, buddy?”

“Fucking fantastic,” I try to say, but my voice sounds thick and nasal, like I’m wearing a snorkel, making the last word sound more like “fandadic”. Blood sprays out when I talk and Kim flinches away. The pain, like earlier tonight when I got punched in the eye (seriously, what the fuck is going on? Am I wearing a “punch me” sign I was unaware of?), has lessened marginally, but it hasn’t disappeared, not by a long shot. I can feel my pulse in my nose. Blood is still flowing down my hands and it’s starting to make me dizzy. 

Damage-control-Kim kicks into gear. “Wes, get dressed then get Kaleb’s clothes. James, go into the bathroom, grab a tampon, cut it in half. George, go get a pack of ice or peas or something out of the freezer. Kaleb, do you think you can stand?”

I don’t bother answering. Just climb weakly to my knees until Kim can get a hand under me and help haul me to my feet. She half-drags me to the sofa and lays me down, my head tipped back over the armrest. I feel her fingers pushing my hair out of my face, untangling it where the blood has started to matt it. 

“I thought you didn’t ‘approve’,” I blubber.

“I don’t,” she says softly. “But you did it anyway, so, what was I supposed to do? Let Cody kill you?”

I laugh but it’s more of a gurgling sputter. “Thanks, Kim.”

“Yeah, well, you’re welcome. Fucking idiot.” She kisses me on the forehead.

Then there’s two things being shoved up my nostrils, making the bridge of my nose sting like a mother. I feel something touching my lip and swat at it, but then it just dangles on my cheek. I catch it between my bloody fingers. It’s a string. Aw shit. I have two tampon halves in my face, don’t I? This night just gets better and better. 

Soon my legs are being eased into my boxers and jeans, then a cold pack pressed to my face. At first it hurts like all hell, but when I endure it after a while it starts to feel soothing, numbing the throbbing of my nose. I hold onto it and the procurer of the ice pack lets go. Someone is cleaning my hands with moist towels. Then cleaning my chest and stomach. I roll my head to the side, moving the ice pack a little, and catch a glimpse of Wesley’s shaggy dirty-blonde hair, his black clothes. 

“We need to stop meeting like this,” I try to joke weaky.

His lips quirk at the edges but he doesn’t look at me. I put my hand over his, stilling its progress. I let my head loll back, replacing the ice. I give his hand a squeeze.

“I’m sorry.” I’m trying to be sincere but my voice just sounds ridiculous.

“You have nothing to be sorry about.” Wesley’s voice is hoarse and weak and heartbreaking. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I should’ve never… I should’ve waited, until after we took Cody to rehab, until tomorrow, or, I don’t know, a week from now. Something reasonable. But I was scared you wouldn’t-” He cuts himself off. A full beat of silence passes before he continues. “I thought that if I waited, you’d change your mind. You’d sleep on it and you’d realize it was a stupid idea, that I’m too young and too, I don’t know, too ‘Cody’s kid brother’. I didn’t want to miss my chance.”

I laugh, the same gurgling sound from before, and I feel Wesley jump, startled. “Miss your chance to do me? That’s all I am to you, huh? A hot piece of tail?”

Wesley laughs weakly, but it’s genuine and relieved.

I press on, struggling to enunciate every word. “I was scared of that too, Wes. That’s why I didn’t stop you.”

“You were?”

“Fuck yeah. I mean, it’s not natural to be this into somebody you’ve only just met, right? And I mean  _ really _ met. You said you loved me-”

“I-I didn’t mean - I mean I was just, I wasn’t thinking-”

“Hey, it’s okay.” I give his hand an extra squeeze. “When you’re younger you feel freer to use words like that. It’s harder when you’ve lived longer and have gotten fucked over as many times as I have. I don’t know if I love you, Wes, but I think I might be falling for you. Hard. And I think I’m an idiot, but it’s true. I thought it might wear off, you know, in the morning, but I don’t think this is the kind of thing that can just disappear. You feel that, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” he croaks, then sniffles. I think he might be crying again. “I feel that.”

“So don’t be scared, honey bear.” His laugh fills my chest with light, fluttering things. “Everything’s gonna be okay. Now that you’ve marked me, you’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

I hear Wesley shuffle forward and then feel his lips on mine. It must be terribly gross, I mean, there’s still blood on my face. But he just wipes my lips with a clean corner of the towel, then wipes his own, and out of the corner of my eye I see him grin, big and broad and full of sunshine and dimples and my I feel my heart clench. I don’t care if he’s seventeen or sixteen or eightyfive. I am fucking  _ gone _ on this boy. “I’m gonna hold you to that.” 

I stroke Wesley’s cheek while he finishes cleaning up my face. He fiddles with the string hanging out on my cheek and he frowns. “Is that… do you have tampons in your nose?”

I start cracking up laughing at the same time as the doorbell rings.

From my position I get an upside down view of Kim walking to and opening the door. Before she’s even stepped back, Sing is pushing inside, followed by a haggard looking Ellen in her pyjamas, and Glenn, hair a mess, in sweats, the latter two having, by all appearances, been dragged right out of bed.

“You guys took your fucking time,” Kim snaps when they’re all inside.

“Hey,” Sing counters defensively. “I was already back in the city and I had to round up these two idiots. Where is he?”

“You missed it. We already had the intervention.”

“That was fast,” Ellen yawns, hugging her bare, brown shoulder. “How’d it go? Did he freak?”

“Well, not so much  _ then _ .”

“What do you mean ‘then’?”

“What the fuck happened to Kaleb?” Glenn asks sleepily.

“You guys better sit down.” Kim gestures at the chairs around the table, except for the one that lies dead in front of the kitchen. Rest in peace, chair. Rest in peace.

Sing, Glenn, and Ellen sit while Kim paces, retelling the story with as much detail as she dares. James and George are outside of my field of vision, if they’re here at all. “We sat Cody down and talked to him, told him we knew about the heroin. He didn’t take it well, started yelling at us, saying a lot of really nasty shit to Kaleb. But I talked to him about Sam and how much we love him and how much his drug use hurts all of us and how much it’d fuck as all up if he died, so I managed to talk him into going to rehab.”

“Well that’s a fucking miracle,” Sing scoffs.

“It kinda was. He said he just had to pack and settle some things so we said ok. Then…” She shoots me a strained, tired look before continuing. “Well, lemme back up a bit. Earlier tonight, Kaleb started getting really cozy with Wesley.”

“Who’s Wesley?” Glenn stupidly asks. I can’t hold it against him. He knows Wesley about as well as I did before tonight and he’s just been dragged out of his bed and across the Bay, I’m sure his brain is pretty fried.

“Uh, Cody’s little brother,” Ellen says in her best ‘duh’ voice. “Where’ve you been?”

“Cody’s _ sixteen year old _ brother,” Sing adds helpfully.

“Seventeen,” Kim corrects. “Anyway, they’ve been getting super cozy all night and had the genius idea to go into George’s room and take their coziness to the next level.”

“Shit,” Ellen sighs. “And George’s lock doesn’t even work.”

“Exactly. When I figured out where Kaleb and Wes had gotten to - what they were probably doing - I turned up the music, hoping they could ‘do their thing’ without Cody ever finding out about it. But then George got home, flipped his shit when he saw Kaleb and Wes getting to know each other in the biblical sense, and then Cody comes in and… well, there’s Kaleb.” She gestures in my direction and the three musketeers turn to look at me. I wave weakly at them.

“Well, that’s just fucking great,” Sing says, more amusement in his voice than I would care for. “And where is Mr. Fisticuffs himself?”

“He locked himself in his room and hasn’t come out.”

There’s a moment of silence while everyone processes this tale. Sing is the first to break it. “You mean to tell me… that a known heroin addict, who’s in a very volatile, emotional state, has locked himself in his bedroom, a place that probably contains an ample amount of drugs, drugs like, let’s say, heroin?”

Another silence settles. This time broken by Ellen saying, “Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this harrowing chapter of smut, violence, and feels! I think I'm going to retroactively add some tags for the sex, maybe, I don't know, what do you think? Anyway, if you thought there were some real feels in this chapter just you wait until next week! As always, thank you for your continued or first-time readership. Show your appreciation (or contempt) by leaving a comment!


	9. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we return to where we started.  
> WARNING: See those tags up there for graphic violence and drug abuse? Well, steel yourself. Shit's about to get real.

**Chapter 8**

 

5:47am

 

Wesley helps me struggle into my shirt, bloodying it in the process (fuck it, it was an old shirt anyway), and gets me to my feet. I join the group crowding around Cody’s door, fighting down a wave of nausea from righting myself too quickly. Sing is pounding on the door.

“Open up, Cody!” Kim is calling. “We just wanna talk!”

As anticipated, there’s no answer. That doesn’t tell us anything. I push my way to the front, bang on the door, and shout at the top of my lungs, “I’m out here eating out your little brother! Better come out and stop me or I’ll ruin him with my perversions!”

There’s a hush as we collectively hold our breaths, straining to listen. Still nothing. That can’t be a good sign.

“Get out of the way,” James says, still as cool as a motherfucking cucumber. We do as he suggests and step aside. James knocks on the edges of the door, but lightly, like he’s testing the wood. He gives it a few experimental shoves. He steps back until his back is against the opposite wall then he dashes forward, shoulder first, into the door. The sounds of rending metal and the door banging against the dresser hard enough to shatter are loud enough to be heard across the block. I wonder vaguely if they have neighbors in this building but decide they mustn’t, or they’re deaf, because they would’ve called the cops ages ago. James steps back, holding his arms out in a way that suggests either “ta-da” or “go on in”, possibly both.

Kim is the first to dart inside, followed closely by me and Wes and Ellen, with Sing and Glenn bringing up the rear. The first thing we see is Cody, prone on his unkempt twin bed, his sleeve rolled up to his shoulder, a strap wound tightly around his upper arm, and a needle sticking out of the vein in the crook of his elbow. On the desk it’s like a scene out of  _ Breaking Bad _ or some shit, little balls of tin foil lying around, a scorched, bent spoon, a lighter, empty syringes. 

Kim is on top of Cody, slapping his cheeks lightly. “Cody? Code?” She’s not panicking, it hasn’t sunk in yet. Cody’s whiter than I’ve ever seen him, he’s practically translucent, and his lips are tinged blue. He’s not stirring. Kim grabs him by the collar and shakes him bodily. “Wake up, Cody!” 

I pull the needle out of his arm with my thumb and forefinger, like it might bite, and set it on the desk. I put two fingers to his jugular. I can’t really feel anything, and what I do feel might just be my own pulse jumping in my fingertips. I pull my phone out of my pocket and hold it under his nose. It fogs, but only slightly. I jerk back and face the gang, wild-eyed. “We have to get him to a fucking hospital!” They just stare back at me, huddled together, faces masks of fear and confusion, like sheep during a thunderstorm. I flail my arms at them and shout, “NOW!”

 

6:10am

 

Kim’s silver Hyundai is careening up the 101 North, going so far past the legal speed limit we’re practically Warp 9. We had all agreed to load Cody into her car, since she was double parked directly in front of the house. Kim is driving, with Wesley in the passenger seat, twisted around to stare ashen-faced at his brother who’s head is in my lap with his legs across James’. Sing agreed to follow us in his car with Ellen and Glenn. I have no idea how far behind us they are, and if we keep up this pace we’re going to warp into the next century. 

“How’s he doing?” Kim calls back to me.

“Just keep driving!” I shout back at her. She needs her full attention on the road if we’re going to get there alive. Even on a mostly deserted highway, speeds this high could mean suddenly losing control and fishtailing into a ditch. 

I’ve been periodically holding a finger under Cody’s nose to check his breathing. I can’t really feel it anymore. 

My guilt is a pulsing, visceral thing. I’m trying to block it out, to focus on the moment, to think about nothing but getting Cody to the hospital, but the panic has turned my mind into a decimating tornado, hurling unwanted thoughts to the fore, thoughts like  _ It’s all my fault _ and  _ If I could’ve just kept it in my pants my friend wouldn’t be dying _ . 

I look up at Wesley, a ghost in the blue light of early dawn, his pale cheek pressed up against the headrest, his bloodshot eyes focused on nothing but his brother. I swallow around the lump in my throat and the debilitating palpitations of my heart. I did this to him. I made him hurt like this. If I had just let Cody beat the shit out of me, if I’d just hung my head and said he was right and left, if I hadn’t gone into George’s room with Wes, if I’d never left the party at Sausalito with him, if I’d never gone with Kim to get that fucking demo tape - I wouldn’t have this, whatever  _ this _ is, with Wesley, but at least Cody would be okay, at least Wesley wouldn’t be watching his brother’s life slip away. I always knew that one of these days I’d fuck up beyond repair, and I think I’ve finally done it.

That’s when Cody starts to move. At first I think he’s waking up but then I realize his movements are too jerky, that his eyes aren’t open but rolled back in his head, and then I see the foamy god-awful smelling slime frothing out of his mouth. 

“Holy shit!” I cry, snapping backwards only to hit my head on the window.

“What! What’s happening!” Kim sounds like she’s verging on hysteria.

Across my and James’ laps Cody’s started thrashing, violently, convulsing. Oh God. He’s having a seizure. What do I do what do I do what do I do-

I throws my arms across his giant, heaving body, rambling, “James - you gotta do something - roll him over or - do I need a wooden spoon or - James, do something!”

The car is a confusion of shouts and sobs and I think I hear Kim screaming something but I’m too busy trying to roll Cody over and trying to kick James into action by actually kicking him and what the hell is that  _ sound _ -

 

The first thing I’m aware of is the smell of burning rubber. The second thing I’m aware of is that I can’t see. But then I open my eyes. My brain is a jumble, it can’t make sense of the things I’m looking at, like it’s all just some kind of abstract Rorschach. I don’t even fully understand not understanding, like when you’re in a dream and nothing makes sense but none of that seems unusual to you. I can’t remember how I got here or where “here” is, though I don’t feel particularly distressed about it, just confused.

Then I hear a wailing sound, like a baby. The wires in my brain are crossed or misfiring. The sound, like what I’m seeing, doesn’t make any sense. But, with the speed of an ant trying to free itself from molasses, the sound eventually sorts itself into the right archive in my mind and I think “Kim”. The thought triggers a cascade reaction. The images in front of my eyes resolve themselves into the inside of a car, but I’m looking at it upside down, and it’s all… wrong. It’s too claustrophobic, there are too many things poking through and everything looks twisted like I’m seeing it reflected in a funhouse mirror. Kim’s cries are joined in by a deeper, more masculine groaning. I try to turn my head to look but I can’t. I’m stuck. I try to think, but it’s like wading against the current. I cling to the one thing I can make sense of.

“Kim,” I try. My voice sounds unfamiliar, like listening to an old recording of myself. I feel detached, I feel like I’m watching a movie, and I feel just as powerless to change it or stop it. “Kim!” I say louder, my voice breaking as a pain shoots through my head like a white-hot knife.

“Kaleb!” I hear her shriek. I see movement and realize I’ve been looking at her bright green hair poking through the crack between the headrest and the seat. She’s upside down, like the car. The car. The car is upside down. We’ve been in a crash. Oh my God, we’ve been in a car crash. My heart starts hammering in my throat, my mind clearing with a brand new surge of adrenaline.

“Kimmy!” My voice is as high and frightened as hers. “Kimmy, are you okay?” Please, please, please be okay. I can’t handle it if you’re not okay.

“I’m trapped!” She cries. “I can’t get out!” I can hear thrashing and pounding and the sound of metal whining under stress. I get a terrifying image of the car collapsing on top of us and cry out, “Don’t move!” I try to reassess my position. I’m in the back still. But I’m not in the seat. I never put my seatbelt on. I’m lying on the roof, something on top of me, pinning me against it. I give an experimental shove and find whatever is on top of me to be fairly soft if heavy. It’s across my back and one of my shoulders. If I leverage myself with my hands against the roof I can’t push it off. I spread my arms as far as i can and place my palms flat against the scratchy fabric lining the roof and push with all the strength I can muster. The dead weight falls off me with a thud at the same time as a searing pain jolts down my side. Freed, I sit up as much as I can, hunched over against the car’s backseat. I’ll take stock of my injuries later. First, I need to get out of here. I need to help Kim. I see that the thing on top of me had been Cody, his body immobile and his Peruvian knit sweater bloodstained in places. I can’t think about that now. I have to think about the others. 

I can tell by the incessant groaning to my right that James is alive. Neck bent against the backseat, I turn as much as possible to get a look at him. He’s folded over, like he got stuck in a summersault. I can’t see his face from here. “James, you ok?”

“What the bloody fuck do you think!” he sobs and returns almost immediately to moaning pitifully. He’s well enough, for now. That leaves…

My heart stops. I can hear Kim crying, James groaning, but I can’t… I can see the black shadow of his body huddled in the front, by the window. I watch for as long as I dare but I don’t see him move. I swallow around a wave of nausea and steal myself. “Wes?” 

No answer comes. I try again, my voice cracking, losing strength, coming out like a croaked whisper, “Wesley?”

I can’t. I can’t do this. I can’t take this. This wouldn’t happen, not to me. Not after everything. Please don’t do this to me.  _ Please _ .”Kim, can you see Wesley? Is he-” My voice breaks off. I can’t make the words leave my mouth.

I hear creaking metal, see Kim’s head move. “I - I - I can’t see him - I can’t tell - I -”

“It’s okay, Kim.” I have to do this. I have to. No one else can. I can’t rely on Kim to fix things for me anymore. I have to do this. “Just, don’t move. I’m gonna get us out of here. Don’t move.”

I strain my neck to get a look at the window to my left. I’m grateful to see that it’s a spiderweb of cracks. All it’d take is one swift kick and it’d go down. I inch myself around until my feet are pointed towards it then haul my knees towards my chest, ignoring the sharp pain that stabs straight through my side into my back. With my full force behind it, I kick my legs out and, as I’d hoped, the glass shatters into millions of rounded pieces, like car glass mysteriously does. I bend forward until I have my weight braced on my hands and crawl forward out of the car. As I drag myself out, onto the dried scrub grass, the round shards bite and cut my palms and arms but I can’t even feel it anymore. I have too many injuries already, what’s another thousand more? I’m one big, walking wound. 

The cold, slapping wind against my face and through my thin clothes is relieving and invigorating, clearing away some of the claustrophobia and panic that had been growing in me inside the car. I inhale and exhale deeply, feeling the chilled air reviving me, cleansing me. I have to look at the car. I have to know. I take in my surroundings. A ravine or something, a sharp slope upwards on either side, lined with sparsely limbed trees, thick with dried, brown brush, everything muted, unreal shades in the bluish light. I take in the sounds. Wind through leaves, bird song, a distant crackling sound I can’t place. I have to look at the car. I have to look. I should take stock of my injuries first. 

My face is still shit, I know that because it what shit even before this car flipped over - Sing and Cody saw to that. I can’t really feel anything too acutely though, just a general ache all over, with particularly sharp points in my head and side. This either means I got off lucky, maybe hit my head, have a couple of bruised ribs, or I’ve gone into shock. I really,  _ really _ hope it isn’t the latter. I touch the back of my head, where the pain’s the worst, then look at my hand. No blood. Good. Now my side- Oh. 

Oh.

My shirt’s soaked through with blood. So much so that it’s more red than it is white. So much so that I probably wouldn’t even know where my injury is if it weren’t for the fucking metal rod sticking out of my stomach. It’s - it’s black, and thin, maybe it used to be a seat lever or - or - or fuck - there’s a fucking piece of metal in my body. What the fuck do I do? It’s not really in my stomach, it’s off to the left more, under my ribs. I watch it shiver every time I take a breath. I think I’m going to be sick. I can already feel blackness infringing around the edges of my perception, a static sound in my ears, and I know I’m going to faint. Then I hear Kim’s piercing cry behind me, from pain or fear, and I know I have to. I have to. I have to I have to I have to.

I grab the rod in both trembling hands. It’s slick with my own blood. I choke back a swell of bile in my throat. You can do this, Kaleb. You have to. You HAVE TO. I yank, hard, before I have time to think better of it. All my pain had been muted before, like the volume turned down low on a television, but all at once pain floods through me, overloading my nerve endings and I collapse to my knees with a sobbing scream that resounds across the ravine. I fall face forward into the sparse yellow grass and vomit.

When my vision clears and the wave of pain settles into an excruciating throb rather than an ass-fuckingly hellish torture from Satan himself, I wipe my mouth with the back of my bloodied, shaking hand and push myself into a seated position. The rod is still in my hand. It’s a bent thing, no longer than a bottle of beer, no thicker than my thumb. I once pulled a three inch splinter out of my arm and fainted. Afterwards, I kept the splinter, pasted it to my bedroom wall with a piece of tape, right next to my autographed The Strokes concert tickets and the first dollar I ever earned. I wonder (a little hysterically) if I could put this up on my bedroom wall.

I climb tremblingly to my feet, like a fawn using its legs for the first time, my side sending pulsing tendrils of pain coursing through me with each small contraction of my stomach muscles. When I’m fully upright, I stick the rod in my back pocket and turn around, stumbling towards the car. I stop short. 

I’ve never seen a wreck before. Not in person, not with my own two eyes. It’s so much worse than I could’ve imagined. It looks more like a twisted, metal thing, a distortion of steel and glass, a discarded and stomped on giant’s plaything, than it possibly looks like a car. It looks like an upturned, flattened, metallic beetle, the glass and debris its guts. It’s so crumpled that I can’t believe there’s anyone alive in there. 

I amble towards the wreck, around the back, to James’ side. If he’s in better shape than I am (or at least comparable shape), he can help me get the others out. The door’s buckled. I won’t be able to pull it open. Luckily (every single miniscule stroke of luck counts as a minor miracle from here on out) the window’s already shattered so I don’t have to worry about injuring James trying to break it. I get down on my knees in the grass and glass. I can see James’ face, bloodied from the nose down, a permanent grimace of pain as he howls in agony, his legs folded over him, back bent at an excruciating angle. 

“James.” He doesn’t look at me. If it weren’t for the carrying on I wouldn’t even know he’s conscious. “James!” I shout at him, harsh and commanding. His eyes flutter open and focus on me, but he never stops his wailing. “I’m gonna get you out, buddy. Hold tight. I don’t know where you’re hurt, so…” I’m probably not qualified to do this. No, I’m  _ definitely _ not qualified to do this. But I don’t have a choice. I have to. I  _ have _ to. 

I reach in through the window, pushing an arm under his thighs to wrap across his chest. Once I feel I’ve gotten a tight hold, I brace myself with a hand on the car’s underside and pull him to me with all my strength, clenching my teeth against the pain shooting through my abdomen. James’ scream is deafening. It sounds like it echoes for miles. I feel my eardrums reverberate in my skull. But I don’t stop. I don’t stop until his head and shoulders are outside of the car, and then I put my hands under his armpits, dig my heels into the ground and haul him out. I haul until I’ve freed him from the wreck entirely, and then I fall back on the grass, panting, sweating, shaking with adrenaline, exhaustion, pain, and fear. 

When I feel I’ve sufficiently caught my breath, I sit myself back up, with concerted effort, and survey the damage. I have to fight back another wave of nausea. James’ right leg is twisted at an impossible angle, knee facing outward, foot facing inward, and the stark white of a bone tearing through his jeans with a mess of dark blood and pink, yellowish tendons. I force myself to look away before I throw up and cause my stomach muscles any more harm. That’s when I notice James has stopped screaming. I look at him and his face is slack. Panicking, I hurry forward on my knees and press my ear to his chest. It’s still rising and falling and I can hear the wild thudding of his heart. He’s just passed out. Good. He’s not in pain that way. 

I straighten up, staggering, thinking of my next move, my mind unnervingly clear. If I go for Wesley first, and he’s only been knocked out, I might be able to rouse him and, if he’s not as bad as James, he could help me dislodge Kim, who seems, from what she said, to be stuck. But if he’s… if he’s… I don’t think I’d have the strength to help Kim if I find him - if he’s not - No, I have to. No matter what. I have to. It’s just me. No one else is going to help them. It’s just me. I have to.

My mantra renewed, I move to Wesley’s door. The window is still intact enough to be a problem, but the door’s not nearly as bent as James’. In a place where the door warps there’s just enough space to wedge something, for leverage. I cast about for something to use and settle on a pipe or a piece of axle or something not far away. I jam the end into the crack, hold it steady, then push my shoulder against it. The door starts to peel slowly away with a sound like a roaring, cybernetic animal. It takes more strength than I have, and the pain drains half of every ounce of effort I expend. I have to rest halfway through, leaning heavily against the wreck, gasping for breath, clutching my side like it’s only a stitch and I’ve only gone for a vigorous run up Chestnut Street in San Francisco. I’ll never be recovered enough. Not until I get to a hospital. So when I no longer feel like I’m going to lose consciousness, I start at it again. 

When the opening is wide enough to pull a skinny kid through, I stop, casting aside the pipe. I reach inside blindly, holding onto what I know are Wesley’s hard bones and muscles and limbs. I squeeze my eyes shut, praying. I don’t believe in God, not really. I use His name a lot (or Her name, depending on who you ask), 99% of the time in vain. They say religion is for the very young, the very old, or the very sick. I’m going to add the severely fucked to that list. Please, God. If you’re up there, and you don’t hate me for, you know, being gay, or for lying sometimes (often), or for never going to church, or for not giving money to poor people as much as I should, please, please,  _ please _ let him be alive. I won’t say “I’ll do anything” because, seriously, we both know that’s not true. But I do promise to not be as much of an asshole as I’ve been lately. I’ll never touch cocaine again. I’ll never sleep with another guy who I know for a fact is already in a relationship. I’ll never forget to feed our fish, Nacho. I’ll forgive Robbie for rejecting me - it wasn’t his fault anyway, I’m too intense and I was his roommate, what was he supposed to do, stick around and live with the guy who confessed to being in love with him? I promise to put my friends ahead of my career. I promise to call my Mom at least once a week. And I swear to God, (if you’re there, God) that I will never, ever hurt Wesley again. I’ll cut off an arm before I hurt Wesley again. Fuck, just - take me, if you have to take someone. Let me bleed out and die on the side of the road if it means Wesley’ll live. Please. Just. Please.

I swallow. I breathe deeply three, four, five times. Then I pull. And heave. And yank. Until I feel him come free of the car. Then I lay him down gently on a patch of grass that’s mostly glass free and I open my eyes. I let out a long, relieved exhale. He seems okay. Mostly. No obvious pieces of metal protruding from his body. No bent legs or arms or exposed bones. I cup his cold cheek in my hand and tilt his head towards me. Oh. Oh shit. His sand colored hair is matted with blood, right side of his face doused in it. He’s so pale. He’s so fucking cold. I feel my throat constrict, threatening to choke me. My thumb is rubbing his cheek, like I could just warm it up and he’ll open his eyes, his huge, fucking beautiful dark eyes. What if I never see them again? What if I never get to- Fuck - FUCK! Kaleb, no. Now is not the time. I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes, pushing the tears out. Use your head, damnit. Check his pulse, check his breathing, do that CPR shit if you have to. Get your ass into gear, Kotzias. 

I don’t bother putting my fingers on his throat, I’m shit at that anyway. I put my ear directly against his ribcage. I hold my breath, waiting. It’s so faint, the movement of his chest, the beat of his heart, it’s barely there, but it’s  _ there _ . He’s alive. He’s fucking alive. I don’t know for how much longer though. I have to hurry. Thank God. Thank you, God. If you’re there, and this isn’t just all arbitrary nonsense in a vacuum of randomness, you really came through for me, God. I owe you big time.

I leave Wesley where he is and round the former hood of the car to Kim’s side. Another miracle (God, you’re really earning your stripes today - except for, you know, the whole car crash thing but I’m willing to let that slide if you keep coming through for me), Kim’s door was wrenched open in the crash and I have clear access to her. The deflated airbag is hanging in front of her like a discarded white sheet. She’s still strapped in, her neon hair dangling down making her look almost comical. She’s wide-eyed and sobbing, tears and snot dripping down her forehead, but she appears unharmed. She shrieks when she sees me.

“Kaleb! Kaleb, help me, please! I’m stuck - I can’t - Kaleb!” The last part really is a shriek, her face contorted in horror, not looking at my face but at my stomach. “What happened - are - are you - are you -”

“I’m fine, Kimmy.” I cut off her hysterical stuttering. “It looks worse than it is.” No, it’s much, much worse than it looks. But she’s already scared out of her mind. And if she isn’t hurt now, she could hurt herself if she panics and struggles. I’ll tell her later, when we’re all safe and help is on the way. For now, let her believe. Shit. Help. I need to get help. First, I need to get Kim out of this thing. “Let’s get you out of here.”

It’s easier said than done though. I can’t reach her seatbelt to unfasten it, and there’s no guarantee I’d be able to even if I could reach it. I don’t have anything to cut the belt with. None of the shards of glass are large enough to use a cutting tool (damn you safety glass! You’re not even that fucking safe!) and I don’t see anything sharp lying around. 

“Kim, do you think you could get the seatbelt over your head?”

She shakes her head, her lip trembling, tears falling again. “My - my arm - I can’t move it. I think it’s - I don’t know, it’s pinned under something or - I don’t even know if it’s broken -”

“That’s okay, that’s okay,” I soothe. “Does anything hurt? Are you in any pain?”

She’s silent for a moment, sniffling, her eyes darting back and forth as she assesses herself. “No, I don’t think so. My, um, my legs hurt a little. I think they’re stuck under the dash. But, it’s not that bad, I don’t - I don’t know - I think I’m okay.”

“That’s good, Kimmy. That’s really good.” I wipe her nose with my hand and wipe the snot off on my jeans. She smiles a little at me, appreciatively. 

“How are, um, how’re James and Wes and - and Cody…”

“James and Wesley are alive. They’re out cold, but they’re alive. I don’t know about Cody.” When I see her lip trembling again I add quickly, “I’m gonna get us out of this, ok? We’re gonna be alright. I’m gonna fix it. I’m gonna fix everything.”

“Okay.” She breathes deeply, audibly through her mouth. “Okay.”

Time for help. I dig into my pockets, feeling the rod I shoved in there, the one that was inside my body, and it fills me with a weird sense of strength. My hand closes around my phone and I pull it out only to have my heart sink when I get a look at it. It’s ruined, the face a maze of cracks, the body bent and mangled. My eyes prickle as I futilely hold the power button, trying to turn it on. Come on, God, I thought we had a thing going. You can’t do this to me now. 

I toss the useless fucking thing into the woods, willing myself not to cry. You will not cry, Kaleb Kotzias. You will not cry. You will save your friends and you will not cry. 

I keep my voice as calm as I can when I ask, “Hey, Kimmy, you wouldn’t, by any chance, be able to reach your phone, would you?”

“N-no, I - why? What’s - is your phone -”

“That’s okay. I’m sure James’ phone is fine. Or Wesley’s.” There has to be one working phone among the four of us. I stagger back around the car, patting down Wesley’s pockets. I don’t feel anything. It either fell out or he left it at Cody’s, in his jacket pocket, the jacket he didn’t bring with him when he left. Feeling my hope dangling from an ever thinner thread, I kneel beside James, searching him. I almost cry out when I feel his phone in his jacket pocket. That comforting, cold, metallic rectangle. When I pull it out and it’s unscathed I really do cry out. But then I thumb it on and it’s… it’s locked. Of course it’s fucking locked. Why wouldn’t it be locked? Everyone’s phone has a lock. I’m about to chuck it into the woods in pure, unmitigated rage when I remember the emergency call feature. Shit, how could I have forgotten? 

I slide the bottom of the screen and press the little white word, “Emergency”, thumbing 911 as deliberately as I can. I put the phone to my ear and wait. And wait. And then a double beep. The call didn’t go through. I pull the phone away and try again. Same thing. That’s when I think to check the signal. No bars. Of course. Why would there be a signal out here in the middle of nowhere? Why would God make this easy for me after he already did me the favor of keeping Wesley alive? Being rescued is clearly too much to ask. I pocket the phone and stand, feeling numb. 

I turn in a dazed circle, maybe looking for a way out of the ravine, maybe looking for some kind of structure that screams “people”. What I see is a flaming wreck. It’s massive, laying on the side of the slope like it was casually tossed aside. It’s a big rig, sixteen-wheeler, whatever you call those. I guess that’s where the burning smell and crackling sound are coming from. I guess that’s what hit us. For one bizarre moment I hate it. I hate the damned thing more than I’ve ever hated anything. For a terrible moment I wish the driver is dead. And then I blink and sniff and it drains away, leaving me eerily calm again. At least above it I can see the slope end in a flat line, meaning the highway must be beyond it. No one can see us here in the gorge. If no one saw the crash, it could be hours before we’re found, and by then it could be too late - for Wesley, for James, for me. I take another deep breath, readying myself for what I have to do. What I  _ have _ to do.

“Kim, I’m going to go get help.” My voice sounds strange, flat. “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  
  


6:58am

 

Climbing up the steep slope was slow going. There was little solid footing and I kept losing my stamina. Weirdly, the pain started to dissolve, leaving me with only a pressure constricting my ribs when I breath too deeply. I made it though. Eventually. And the sight of the highway wasn’t nearly as much a relief as I thought it would be. I was just tired. First thing I did was pull out James’ phone, to see if I could get better reception. I couldn’t, because this is my life now. Then I walked to the highway’s shoulder and started trying to flag down cars. 

That’s what I’m doing now. Waving my arms at the cars that fly by with a gust of air at upwards of 65 miles per hour. And even those are few and far between. It’s a Saturday morning - or is it Sunday? - and the sun’s barely risen, and we’re in the middle of fuck all. I walk a few paces every now and then, hoping that if I walk far enough I might see a building or a house or a sign of civilization. But I don’t get far. I don’t have the strength. Tiredness is settling in my bones. Deeper. It’s in my soul. But I can’t stop. Not now. Not when my friends need me. I have to. I promised. I have to. I… have… to…

I hum as I lay dying. I don’t remember falling to the ground. I don’t remember making the decision to start humming, if I’m being perfectly honest. What is it I’m humming? Oh yeah.  _ Heroes _ . By David Bowie. Fitting really. I wonder absently if David Bowie is God. Nah. David Bowie wouldn’t let me die on the side of the road in a puddle of my own blood. David Bowie would probably whisk me away in a glittery spaceship and deposit me on Mars. That’d be a way to go. I never thought I’d die like this. Then again, I never really thought I’d die. I mean, I always knew I’d die someday, but I never thought it’d happen while I was still young enough to regret it. And if I did go, I’d thought it’d be something a little more Rock n’ Roll, like being electrocuted by my own guitar, or stabbed to death by a psycho-stalker fan. Yeah. Something like that. Push come to shove I thought I might really lose it one day, like I did when Robbie left, and finally finish myself off, for good. But I never thought I’d go out like this. Not this way. This is… pathetic.

I came so close, you know? I tried so hard. I got my friends out (mostly), I trekked all the way out of the ravine, I made it to the highway. And that’s it. I couldn’t get them help. I couldn’t save them. Now, whenever someone finally sees my corpse on the side of the road, or the smoke from the big rig wreck climbs high enough, it’ll be too late. James’ll have bled out, Cody’s probably already a goner, and Wesley will have… Wesley’ll be…

I can’t feel the cold anymore. I can’t feel the warmth of the drying pool of blood under me. I can’t feel much of anything, really. The whooshing sounds of cars passing are distant, faded. The watery sun behind the predawn clouds is muted, soft. I don’t have to squint anymore when I look up at it, which is just as well because I don’t really have the strength to move my eyelids. A fly lands on my cheek but I don’t have the strength in my arms to swat it away. I barely have the strength to keep breathing, keep humming. And I’m tired. So very tired. My body feels heavy, like it’s sinking into the ground, like I’m sinking into a deep sleep. That’s what it’s like. Falling asleep. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it? To fall asleep? Just rest, just for a little while. I’m so tired. I’ll go to sleep and then I’ll wake up in the morning, refreshed. But he won’t be there. And I won’t either. Because it’s not sleep. It’s death. And I’m not going to wake up. I’m not going to wake up in the morning and see Kim, already in the kitchen, always the early riser, making coffee and watching the news on her laptop. I won’t call my Mom and tell her how great our gig was last night. I won’t take a shower and shave and see hickeys in the mirror and remember Wesley. And I won’t text him and tell him… tell him how great last night was and… and how much I want to see him again and… I’m really going to die, aren’t I?

I feel a hot tear slide down my temple, into my hair. It’s the only thing I can still feel. It might be the last thing I feel. I don’t remember when I stopped humming. My life isn’t flashing before my eyes. I wish it was. I wish I could see myself growing up, skimming my knees when my Dad tried to teach me how to ride a bike; meeting Kim, when she helped me pick up my books after Louis Haynes slapped them out of my hands; telling Robbie that I couldn’t handle it anymore, I needed him to know how I felt, and watching his face shut down, his eyes grow cold; waking up in the hospital, surrounded by my friends, after I pulled that stupid stunt with the plastic bag, feeling ashamed and miserable; playing my first show, being so nervous that I was sick for a whole day beforehand, but feeling like I could conquer the world afterwards; getting the call that Sam was dead, holding Kim all night, not talking; making Cody soup; Wesley’s hundred watt smile; Wesley’s lips; Wesley’s skinny hips; Wesley saying he loved me; Wesley. I’m so sorry, Wesley. I’m so sorry I fucked everything up, for the last time, for the final time. I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. I’ll never see you again. You might even be… Jesus. Please. Forgive me. 

Darkness encroaches on my vision. There’s a far off sound, like a suffering cat, but it fades from my hearing just like light and color drains from my eyes. I feel it pull me and I don’t fight it, I don’t have any strength left to fight it. The last thing I think is,  _ I’m sorry _ .

And that’s when I died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *movie trailer voice* Is Kaleb really dead? Did help ever arrive for his friends? Is Wesley going to be okay? And what about Cody? Find out next week on... That Night!  
> I hope that wasn't too predictable. It didn't feel so predictable when I was writing it but when I went back and read it I was like, "Damn, the readers are going to see that coming a mile away." So I dunno, did you see it coming? Was it exciting? Was it gross? If it triggered your gag reflex then I've succeeded. Let me know in the comments! Love you all and see you soon. Byeeee!


	10. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kaleb isn't actually dead.

**Chapter 9**

 

??:??

 

Regaining consciousness is like clawing my way out of a grave. When I finally open my crusty eyes I gasp like a swimmer coming up for air, like a corpse that’s been resurrected and hasn’t breathed in a century. I look around, something dangling from my nose shifting as I move. Anything remotely bright sends a sharp pain through my skull. I squint, trying to focus on something. I feel like a pile of clothes that’ve just come out of the drier: fuzzy, rumpled, beat up, hot. I feel like one giant ache. 

I can’t make sense of my surroundings for a few moments, wild disorientation making me dizzy, but eventually the shapes and walls resolve themselves and I realize where I am. Pale green walls, linoleum floor, toothpaste-blue bedsheets, comically mundane artwork, a soft, continuous beeping sound. I’m in the hospital. 

I stare up at the pitted ceiling, thoughts racing, none of them settling long enough to make sense of. What am I doing here? What happened? Am I hurt? I must be, or I wouldn’t be here. Was it bad? Did I… did I try to hurt myself again… I stamp down the shame before it can fully take form. I can’t have. I was doing so well. Our music is finally starting to take off, Robbie called to have us open for him -

The show. The Warfield. The after party in Sausalito. I remember… drugs and… a fight? I remember a couple of fights, but I don’t remember what order they were in, if they happened on the same night, at the same party, if I dreamed some of them, all of them. Everything else is a blur, faces and places blending together. I get snatches of the beach, of a bedroom bathed in red light, of running, of kissing, music, smoke. None of it makes sense but it all fits together at the same time, like a fractured dream. 

I’m still trying to eke out the thread of a timeline from the chaos of untethered memories when I hear, “Kaleb?”

I turn my head stiffly to the door in time to see my mother drop a styrofoam cup of coffee that falls with a muted thud and a splash, splattering the closest wall in dark brown rivulets. My mother stands wide-eyed beside an equally agape Kim, leaning heavily on two crutches, her shin and ankle in a soft, navy blue cast.

“Hi, Mom.” My voice is a disused croak. I half expect moths to come flying out of my dry mouth and scratchy throat.

She rushes to my side, kissing my forehead, smoothing my hair away from my face. It’s embarrassing how comforting it is to see her. I instantly feel like a lost, scared little kid again and I have to quell the prickling in my eyes, the lump in my throat. When she pulls away her face is streaked with tears and I notice she’s not wearing any makeup. I can’t remember the last time I saw her without makeup. And her short, blonde hair is unkempt. I wonder, with a sinking feeling, just how long I’ve been here.

“I’m sorry your father isn’t here,” she apologizes, her brown eyes crinkling as she smiles down at me. “He was here yesterday. I’ll call him. He should be here.”

“No, it’s fine, Mom.” But I can tell she isn’t listening.

“How do you feel, sweetie? The doctors said when you woke up you might be in pain. Are you in any pain?”

“Not really-”

“Your father really should be here. I’m going to go call him. Kimberly,” she calls over her shoulder. “Can you keep an eye on Kaleb while I go outside and call Isaak?”

Kim nods mutely. She bizarrely hasn’t moved from the doorframe, standing in a small puddle of coffee, leaning on her crutches, ashen faced.

“I’ll be right back, sweetheart.” Mom kisses me on the forehead one more time before sidestepping Kim into the hall. I lose sight of her when she moves past the curtained window. 

I scratch my nose absently and feel something plastic. I start clawing at it, the feeling of something inside my nose utterly disconcerting.

“You shouldn’t remove that, you know.”

Kim’s still looking at me like she’s seen a ghost, but now maybe it’s the ghost of a loved one and not the freakish librarian from  _ Ghostbusters _ . The corner of my mouth twitches upwards in a weak smirk as I follow the thin plastic tube behind my ears with my fingers and unhook it, pulling the nubs out of my nostrils with one yank. I try to lift myself into a sitting position but a sharp pain shoots through my abdomen and the sense memory hits me so strongly it nearly knocks me unconscious. The pain and sickness must’ve shown on my face because in two hopping strides Kim is by my bedside, laying her crutches against the metal bed frame and putting her hands gently on my shoulders to lay me back against the pillows.

“Take it easy, Kay,” she coos. “Nice and easy.”

My vision swims when I look up at her. I remember that pain. I could never forget a pain like that. It’s burned into my soul. I can see it in my mind, that thin metal rod. Something so small, so innocuous on its own, that I had been convinced had killed me. “Where is it? Where’s the thing?” Suddenly I’m irrationally obsessed with seeing it, with knowing it’s real, have that little piece of metal confirm that I was in a car crash, that I had pulled my friends from a wreck, that I bled to death on the highway. Wait. That’s not right. I didn’t die. I made it. I didn’t die. It didn’t kill me. I won. Fuck you, death! Kaleb Kotzias was here and he kicked your ass! 

Kim’s looking at me now like I’m a crazy ghost. “What ‘thing’?”

“The - the rod - the metal thing, the one that - I put it in my pocket. I remember that. I  _ know _ I put it there.”

“Um, your clothes and things, I think your mom threw them out. They were all covered in blood.”

I don’t know why I’m so disappointed about that, but I am. I wanted to see it. I wanted to gloat in its smug, metal face. I wanted to show it to Kim and say  _ See? This was  _ inside _ my body, and I’m alive! How fucking crazy is that? _ I don’t know, maybe it’s all still catching up to me, hasn’t sunk it yet. But for some reason, I really wanted that metal rod.

“Kaleb? Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I guess. Sure.” I have so many questions, I don’t even know where to start. Everything is still so insubstantial, just glassy images, like from a half-remembered movie. I cough, my words having scraped my raw throat like grit. Kim reaches for a pitcher of water on the bedside table I hadn’t noticed before, pouring the contents into an empty glass and handing it to me wordlessly.

I smile at her in thanks, feeling my parched lips cracking. I take a deep gulp and sputter, like I’ve forgotten how to drink. When I finally manage to get the water down it’s blessedly cool and I almost immediately feel refreshed. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the idea that I somehow survived, that I’m actually here, drinking water again, seeing my friend, my mother,  when Kim chimes in, soft and reverent, “You died, you know.”

I blink at her, her words not quite taking form in my mind. “What?”

“Your heart stopped.” I can hear the tremble in her voice, the echo of tears. “In the ambulance. They told your parents later. They had to use the, um, those shock things, you know the ones, like from TV.” She rubs viciously at an escaped tear, like she’s trying to force it back inside. She sniffs before continuing. “You were dead for one minute and four seconds.”

“Fuck.” It’s the only words that comes to mind. Honestly. I genuinely can’t think of a single thing. All I can do is listen to Kim talk. It’s like a trance, or a spell, or like being really high.

“Yeah. You lost a lot of blood. Like,  _ a lot _ . They gave you a bunch of transfusions. They operated. I’m not really sure what they did, I think they closed something? Like an artery? And then you wouldn’t wake up. We kept waiting and waiting, and you wouldn’t wake up and -” Her voice cracks and she has to stop. She reaches for a tissue and blows her nose, wiping her eyes with it after she’s balled it up. “I was starting to think you weren’t ever gonna wake up, Kay.”

I set the glass of water on the end table and grab her shaking hand, squeezing. I don’t know how I feel about being dead for one minute and four seconds. Terrified, probably. I mean, I was dead and I didn’t even know it, does that mean that there’s nothing after? Like, not even a hell in which I’ll suffer eternal damnation? Or maybe my mind can’t even conceive of what happens after death so when I woke up again it all evaporated. I don’t know. Whatever. Either way, the one thing I do know is that I’m profoundly, deeply grateful that Kim is here. I’ve always thought of her as the sister I never had, but seeing her now, after I thought I’d failed her, failed all of them, I’m filled with such immense relief I could cry. I don’t think I ever knew until this exact moment how much I love her. I’d have prefered this realization not be at the expense of a billion liters of my blood, but still. 

“I’m right here, Kimmy. I’m okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

That does it. She gasps out a sob and collapses on top of me, making my stomach ache, her small body shaking with her cries. I hold her to me, rubbing soothing circles over the hoodie stretched across little back. I hold her as she weeps a wet spot into my flimsy hospital gown. And I hold her until her sobs subside to hiccupping whimpers. 

I see my mother reappear in the doorway. She takes in the scene, smiles fondly, and points to the hallway, mouthing something, probably ‘I’ll be outside’, before leaving again.

When Kim can breathe again, when her trembling has waned, she straightens herself and grabs a fistful of tissues, jamming the whole wad to her face, blowing her nose noisily. When it looks like she’s mostly finished, I start with the first question that’s been nagging at me since I saw her. “How’s everybody else?” I wanted to ask  _ How’s Wesley? _ But I don’t want to be that big a dick. I  _ do _ care about James and Cody, honestly I do. But I have to know. I have to know he’s okay. I have to hear the words. Most of that night is still fuzzy and disconnected, but I remember Wesley. I remember the first time I kissed him, when he was holding a bag of frozen peas to my face. I remember rolling in the sand with him, I remember fucking him senseless in Cody’s roommate’s bedroom, I remember him saying he loved me. My stomach clenches thinking about him. My chest tightens so hard it feels like I’m going to pass out when I think that pulling him out of the wreck, his wavy blonde hair matted with blood, might be the last time I’ll ever see him.

Kim’s hesitation makes my heart sink to the pit of my stomach. I swallow painfully, my throat dry again. When she starts speaking, it’s slow and careful, like someone trying to step around glass shards. “James is great. He’s already home. His leg was broken pretty bad but once they got pins in it and put a cast on they told him he could go. Glenn says he plays  _ Call of Duty _ and smokes weed all day, and when he gets hungry he makes Hannah get him food.”

“Sounds like James,” I agree, scouring her face for a sign of what she’s going to say next. Her red-rimmed eyes only reveal sadness and exhaustion.

“And Wesley’s fine.” My relief cascades through me like a wave, settling over me like a lovely warm blanket. I let out a breath I hadn’t even known I’d been holding and feel the tension melt out of my shoulders. I can barely hear the rest of what she says through the dizzying rush of it. “He had a concussion and brain swelling, or something, and they drilled a hole in his head to relieve the pressure, which is pretty crazy. He’s actually just a couple of rooms away. They’re keeping him here for observation but he should be out in a day or two. He’s already been here for five days.” 

Kim fidgets absently with the wad of tissues in her hands, compressing them, turning them over. I have a feeling I know what she’s going to say now. It’s not surprising. I think I knew it before I even climbed out of the wreck. And I feel awful that I’m glad it wasn’t Wesley. 

“Cody didn’t make it,” I supply for her. She just nods jerkily and stares at the Crest-blue blankets. “Was he…” I clear my throat, feeling it constricting. “Was he already dead, before the ambulance got there?”

She speaks so quietly she’s practically whispering. “They said he was probably dead before the truck even hit us.”

I stare back up at the pockmarked ceiling, a calm sort of numbness settling in. “It’s my fault he’s dead.” My voice is flat, factual. “It’s my fault we were hurt. The whole God damned thing is my fault.”

“No!” Kim pleads, wrapping her hand around my wrist, trying to comfort me as if I’m on the verge of some kind of mental collapse. “No, Kaleb, none of it’s your fault. It’s no one’s fault. If it was going to be anyone’s fault it’d be mine. I was the one driving. I was the one who got distracted, who looked away from the road. Or it’d be the truck driver’s fault, for not seeing us, for having been on the road for sixteen hours.”

“No. It was me. It was all because of me. If I had stopped to think about anyone but myself, if I hadn’t been thinking with my dick, Cody would have never flown off the handle. He’d have never… Everything was going to be fine. He was going to go to rehab. He  _ wanted _ to go. If I had just waited, like you’d told me to. If I’d just gone home and gone to sleep. If I’d told Wesley I couldn’t, if I’d just told him how I felt he wouldn’t have thought he  _ needed _ to-” I stop myself and look Kim earnestly in the eye. “I need to see him.”

Kim looks at me like I’ve finally lost my mind. “See…” She shakes her head, trying to dislodge the thought that I might be asking to see Cody’s mutilated corpse. “Wesley?”

“I need to see him.” I push myself up, ignoring the radiating pain. Kim tries to stop me, hands on my shoulders again.

“No, Kaleb, you need to rest, Wesley’ll-”

I level her with an icy blue stare. “Help me, or leave me alone.”

She sets her jaw, searches my eyes for a moment, then takes my hand and helps to pull me to my feet.

  
  


Friday 7:22pm

 

Turns out it’s not as easy I thought to go ambling about a hospital when you’ve been unconscious for five days. The first thing I found out when I tried to stand was that I needed a nurse to come remove my catheter. That was a painful and embarrassing experience I’d like to never repeat so long as I live. After that I had to piss like hell. I wheeled my IV into the little adjoining bathroom with me and had fun getting the first good look at my face since before the concert last fucking Saturday. Turns out Cody did break my nose. The giant bandage and racoon bruises around my eyes are evidence of that. I hope it never heals right. I hope my septum is permanently deviated. I want to keep that reminder with me, to see in the mirror for the rest of my life proof that I killed my friend. I can breathe through it though, so there’s something. Also, I need one hell of a shave. I didn’t inherit my father’s Greek hirsuteness and the best beard I can hope to achieve are wispy patches of black hair that make me look like a dog with mange. I also need a shower, like, yesterday, but I’m not sure I can take the IV into the shower with me. 

I scour the medicine cabinet and settle for brushing my teeth with the complimentary toothbrush and tasteless toothpaste, lathering my face with shaving cream from the miniature complimentary can, and shaving with the blunt, cheap, complimentary razor. Kim is banging on the door, asking if I’m alright, before I’ve finished. I might be vain, but I’m already starting to feel more like a person, more like myself, the memory of the car crash and my dead friend fading away into a vague nightmare, something so outlandish it couldn’t ever have happened to ordinary me, with my ordinary face and my ordinary, lank hair, and my ordinary blue eyes. That must have happened to someone else, someone terrible, someone who deserved it. Not me.

When I step out of the bathroom, steam from the sink escaping with me, Mom is back. And she’s got Dad with her. As soon as he sees me he lunges forward, pulling me into his big, hairy arms, hugging me painfully tight. He kisses the top of my head and I can feel him crying. My dad never cries. It’s a tortured sound, like he can’t catch his breath. He releases me and grabs my face in his hands, searching it for something. He must find it because he grins, the same huge winning grin that I’m famous for (at least I got one good thing from Dad), and claps me once, hard, on the shoulder, before letting me go. He doesn’t say anything. He’s never been a big talker, my old man.

Mom is holding a duffel bag. She sees me eyeing it and she drops it on the bed, unzipping it. “I brought some things for you. Just some of the clothes you keep at our place for when you visit. I didn’t know what your style is these days so I just went ahead and threw some things in, some shirts, some pants, underwear, socks, oh and I packed a pair of sneakers, because the old ones were just falling apart and I had to throw them away.”

I stop her ramble with a pressing question. “Mom, when you went through my things, the things I was wearing, did you find a metal thing, like a rod, about this long?”

For a second she looks like she’s about to ask what I’m talking about but then recognition dawns on her face. “Oh, oh that. I didn’t know what it was so I put it away. I thought maybe it was one of your music things. Didn’t want you to get angry with me if you -  _ when _ you woke up and didn’t find it.” While she was talking she walked over to the bedside table. She opens the top drawer and pulls out my wallet, a flattened pack of cigarettes, James’ phone, and the long, sleek, black metal rod, shiny and new, except for the fact that it’s bent and I still have no idea what part of the car it even came from.

I stumble towards her, tugging my IV with me, and take it from her numbly. It doesn’t feel as heavy as it had. It’s also not covered in my blood.

“I cleaned it up,” Mom supplies, sensing my question. “Didn’t think you’d want it all-” She makes a vague gesture towards me with her hand. “You know.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I close my fist around it, feeling a jagged edge of it bite my palm, like it’s last ditch effort to inflict pain upon me. You tried to kill me, little guy. And you failed. Your fight’s over now. I feel strangely powerful. “Thank you for keeping this for me.”

  
  


8:01pm

 

Doctor Royce, a kindly faced older man with glasses several decades out of style, looked me over while I waited impatiently. He gave me a rundown of pretty much what Kim had told me, in more medical terms. A piece of debris from the car (I neglected to mention it was the same piece of metal I’m now keeping in the skinny drawer in the bedside table) pierced my upper lateral abdomen and spleen, fortunately missing my more vital organs, and severed an artery which led to the extreme blood loss. The damage was sewn up but I’d developed an infection, which contributed to the brief coma I was in for nearly a week. My septum was deviated (and I neglected to mention this was thanks to an earlier scuffle rather than the car crash) and would take a few more weeks to heal. He also told me that the driver of the big rig didn’t make it. I’m not sure how I feel about that. He told me about all the medications I’d have to take, how to go about my recovery - when to change bandages, what not to eat or drink, how to wash my stomach wounds, when the sutures would have to be removed, etc - and that he’d like me to stay in the hospital for another day or two for observation. He even let me get dressed, miracle of miracles, and helped me by temporarily unhooking the IV drip from the little thingymajig in my arm so I could actually get a T-shirt on. 

My parents, having been sufficiently comforted by the doctor that I wouldn’t suddenly lapse back into a coma or spontaneously combust, agreed to let me out of their sight so Kim could lead me Wesley’s room down the hall.

She hobbles slowly by my side as if by an invalid, which I suppose I am at the moment. I suppose we both are. Being awake for an hour’s really taken its toll on me. I only have enough energy to shuffle forward at an elderly pace, which is just as well because Dr. Royce told me not to strain myself physically. Though at the moment it feels like just breathing is a physical strain. At least they injected me with a low dose of morphine to dull the pain from my wound so it doesn’t feel like an angry dwarf is punching me in the side everytime I move.

The walk to Wesley’s room, number 307, feels interminable. Keeping my mind off of what I’m going to say to him, how he’s going to feel when he sees me, how  _ I’m _ going to feel when I see  _ him _ , proves to be easier than anticipated since all my cognitive functions are being focused on propelling me forward inch by inch, tugging the IV alongside me on its stiff wheels like my own personal Sisyphean burden. When I get there the door is closed. I look at Kim. She’s watching me as if I’m about to fall apart. I might be, I just think I’m too tired to feel it coming. I raise my eyebrows at her. THE eyebrows. She nods, but doesn’t look any less concerned, silently sinking into one of the blue, plastic chairs bolted to the floor against the hallway wall. I don’t bother knocking. I just turn the handle and enter.

He doesn’t notice me at first. He’s lying in the narrow hospital bed, the top part tilted up to accommodate him in a semi-sitting position. He’s wearing a hoodie over his hospital gown, a thick hospital-issue blanket thrown across his lap. His head is bandaged, unruly hair the color of wet sand poking out from under it at all kinds of odd angles. He’s got a Nintendo 3DS open and earphones in, the light from the game flickering across his pale face in rainbows of color. 

I hadn’t really believed it when Kim had told me. That he’s alive. I had been relieved to hear the words but I hadn’t been able to make it fit with the last image I had of him, dying next to a car wreck in glass and blood and dead weeds and dirt. But he’s here. He’s breathing, he’s awake, he’s playing a fucking game. He’s really alive. I think I make a sound, halfway between a gasp and a sob, and his eyes snap up. They return to the game in his hands, but after half a second his head jerks toward me, big eyes growing impossibly bigger, his jaw dropping, the 3DS falling silently from his fingers and onto the navy blue blanket. I seem to have that effect on people these days.

I can’t think of anything to say. What do you say to someone you think you’re falling in love with whose injuries and own brother’s death you’re responsible for? Fuck do I know. I don’t really think he knows what to say either, shock written on every soft, white surface of his face. He remembers to pull the earbuds out of his ears and close the 3DS with a light click, never taking his eyes off me, like even blinking might make me disappear. The silence just seems to stretch, ever thinner, ever harder to bear, until it feels like I’m walking a tightrope and if one of us doesn’t say something I’ll lose my balance and fall. So I say the first thing that comes to mind. 

“Hey.”

It’s probably the most inadequate thing I’ve ever said. And I’m caught completely off guard when Wesley’s enormous black eyes suddenly become glassy with tears and he covers his mouth with his hands and begins to quietly cry. 

My self-consciousness flies out the window. I go to him so fast I nearly forget to drag the IV with me. I sit on the edge of the bed and scoop him into my arms. He buries his face in my chest and clutches at my T-shirt, trying to quell his sobs and failing. I bury my nose in his hair. His parents must’ve brought him his things from home because he smells just like I remember. Clean laundry, white soap, powder fresh shampoo. I smile. I can’t help it. He’s alive. He’s in my arms. And I don’t think I’m falling in love with him. I  _ am _ in love with him. I feel it with every fiber of my being. I feel it from the top of my head straight down to the souls of my sneakers. I feel it in the tightness of my chest, in the bubbles of my stomach, the pounding of my heart. And I realize that I’ve never been in love with anyone before. I’d thought I had. But that was before. Before  _ this _ . I never want to let him go. I want to dry his tears. I want to take him home with me and kiss him and just look at him and wait on him hand and foot and never let him want for anything. I want him always. I love him.

“I thought you were dead,” he mumbles into my shirt, his sobs having turned to sniffles. “They wouldn’t let me see you, they wouldn’t tell me anything. I thought you were dead and they were trying to protect me, because they thought I couldn’t handle it, because of what happened to Cody…” He trails off, falling silent, his skinny shoulders stiff in my arms.

I swallow heavily before I speak, soft and careful. “I’m sorry.”  _ Please don’t hate me _ , I think selfishly.

“Thanks,” he replies flatly, rehearsed, used to hearing those words day after day.

“No,” I stress. “ _ I’m sorry _ . Cody’s dead because of me.”

Wesley’s head snaps up, nose and eyes red, eyebrows creased. “What?” 

My nerve seems to be waning, looking into his eyes, seeing the sliver of grey around his pupils, dark like volcanic ash. I force myself to plow on. “It’s my fault. All of it. The car crash, his overdose. I’m the reason you got hurt. I’m the reason you’re brother’s gone. I’m so sorry, Wes. You have no idea how sorry I am. That I hurt you, that I hurt all of us. And I know being sorry won’t bring him back, I know it won’t change anything, but I need you to know how sorry I am. How I would do anything to take it all back if I could.”  _ Please don’t hate me. I don’t think I could handle it if you hated me. _

Wesley’s inscrutable black eyes are searching mine again, like they did when he was trying to figure me out that night a million years ago before any of this shit happened. He finds what he’s looking for or he doesn’t. He looks at me levelly and says, voice even, “Fuck you, Kaleb.”

His words wind me like a punch to the gut. It’s my turn to stare at him open-mouthed and uncomprehending. “What?”

“Fuck you for trying take the blame for this.” He messily wipes his nose and eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, sniffing. His face is hard, determined, unwavering. “You can’t make me blame you. I won’t do it. If I blame you, it’d be because Cody only ODed after he saw us together, so then I’d have to blame myself, because I basically forced you to do it in the first place. I made the choice to fuck my brother’s friend instead of helping him when he needed me most, and because of that he’s dead now. Because of that we all nearly died. I’m going to have to live with that for the rest of my life-” His voice cracks. He breaks his gaze from mine for a moment to regain his composure before continuing. “If I start blaming myself I’m never going to stop, and I’ll never be able to forgive myself. So it’s easier for me to pretend that it’s Cody’s fault, for being a drug addict, for being a selfish asshole who couldn’t just hurt himself in peace but had to take the rest of us with him. It’s easier for me to hate him than hate myself because he’s gone, and he’s never coming back, and I’m going to be alive for a long time. That’s a long time to be miserable. I know it’s probably really fucking selfish but there it is. That’s how I’ve decided I’m going to get through this. Because if not - if not I’m going to go fucking crazy.” 

He takes a deep breath, looking down at where his hands are still fisted in my shirt under the wet patches his tears made. “So you can’t just come in here and say it’s your fault. There’s no way in hell it’s your fault and if you think that it’s because it’s actually  _ my _ fault. Do you see that? Do you get why I can’t blame you?”

I laugh. It surprises us both. Wesley frowns, and it’s so inexplicably cute I just have to laugh again, this time ruffling his hair sticking out of the bandage. “I love the way your mind works. It’s like the maze from  _ The Labyrinth _ : all the walls move and nothing makes sense but you always end up getting to the center anyway.” I tap him on the forehead and he wrinkles his nose. I can’t stand it. It’s just too fucking adorable. I don’t hesitate. I just duck down and kiss him. He tastes like Jell-O. 

The kiss isn’t long and it isn’t passionate. It’s soft and warm and loving and it’s exactly what I need. I drink him in, his smell, his taste, the softness of his lips, the peach fuzz of his cheek - too young and probably too blonde to ever adequately grow real stubble. I savor every last detail, remembering how I thought I’d never feel or taste or smell him again. 

When we finally part, I rest my forehead against his, holding his face in my hands, stroking his high cheekbones with my thumbs. 

Wesley’s voice is husky when he speaks again. “Does this mean you don’t hate me?”

I laugh again, hearing my own inner-monologue in his words. “Why would I hate you?”

“Just because I’m pretending not to blame myself doesn’t mean you don’t blame me.”

“I’d sooner blame the sun for shining.”

Wesley’s laugh is sudden and sharp, ringing out like the peel of a bell and filling me with small, bursting fireworks. “That is the  _ corniest _ thing I have ever fuckign heard.”

“Shut up,” I grin. “I get poetic when I’m really into somebody.”

“Oh, so you’re into me, huh?” I’m glad to see that smirk back on his face, even if it’s thinly applied over a well of sadness.

“I’m so fucking into you, Wesley Bloom.”

“I think I finally figured out what I can’t live without.” I feel my heart clench. I know what he’s going to say before he says it. “It’s you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it, folks! Just the epilogue is left and it's super short so instead of waiting an entire week to post I'll be uploading it tomorrow. Feels like just yesterday I started uploading this little story of mine, but it's been two months. Insanity! I'm sorry the story's a bit on the short side, but better short and sweet than forever and boring, amiright? Thanks to everybody who subscribed and bookmarked and what-have-you, y'all are the best. Never stop being fabulous.   
> Freak out!
> 
> XOXOXO


	11. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

 

I stayed in the hospital for two more days, spending them as much as I could with Wesley, talking, getting to know him, spooning with him in the skinny bed, kissing every now and then but nothing more - Doc said no strenuous activity, after all. Once, when it dawned on me, I asked him what ever happened with Mark and the meeting, since clearly he never made it. Apparently Sing called him up a few hours after the accident and told him everything. Mark, of course, completely understood. How could he not? They set up a Skype meeting and held it with Wesley in the hospital, about four days after the accident. The execs at Splatt were duly impressed with _ Haphazardly _ \- now operating under the potential name  _ Wreckless _ , a cute/morbid mashup of their previous name and the unfortunate recent events - and extended an invitation for them to come to LA, sign a contract, and record an album. The news was clearly bittersweet for Wes, who just suffered a serious personal loss. But, at that time not knowing if I was dead or alive, remembered what I’d told him and knew he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t take the chance. So he agreed, and  _ Wreckless _ is due to fly down to LA in three months, when Wesley’ll be out of school for winter break. 

After I was checked out of the hospital, I came back every day, staying with Ellen and George by night so I wouldn’t have to travel all the way back into the city. Cody’s apartment is spooky now. I always feel like he’s watching me, judging me, blaming me. I still can’t be alone in that apartment. Cody’s parents had already emptied his room of his belongings though, so at least I didn’t have to be confronted by his laptop or his  _ Dazed and Confused _ poster and be forced to remember that night, that night that was equal parts tragedy and miracle. 

Before Wesley was released, he finally brought up the subject of “us” and whatever we are. It felt a little high school having that conversation. I can’t remember the last time I felt the need to clarify the status of a relationship. It’s all so 1950’s, so after-school-special, ‘do you wanna go steady?’ But I know that’s kind of where Wesley’s at. I’m not a total idiot (yeah, I know, surprise). I knew when I made the choice to go to his room that first day I woke up in the hospital that I was getting myself romantically involved with a teenager, and even teenagers as smart and mature as Wesley are still just teenagers. So I indulged his need to talk about it. He’s insecure. He still can’t believe I actually woke up and didn’t regret what happened between us. I regret a lot of things from that night, but falling for Wesley is not one of them. I told him that we could be whatever we wanted to be. He didn’t like that answer, and I realized it was my twenty-something answer, an answer for a hot guy I’ve just started dating who I don’t want to scare off. Wesley isn’t like that. He wants the intensity. He  _ is _ the intensity. So I told him that I didn’t want anyone but him, and that if somebody else so much as touched him I’d cut their hands off. It startled me how much I meant that. He liked that answer much better.  _ Much _ better. We stowed away in the bathroom and jacked each other off. It was a good day.

When I finally came home, Kim and I had a long talk. We had to go over everything, starting with what happened on “the night”, all the way up to when we were going to start performing again. She let me know, in no uncertain terms, that she doesn’t approve of my choice to date Wesley. It’s illegal, sure, but I’m not in any serious danger unless his parents decide to seek vengeance for something I do in the future. One day in the hospital they walked in on me cuddled up in bed with Wesley. They were a little shocked, but they already knew Wes is gay, and apparently he’d been telling them about me. They gave me that look, the look that parents always give the older boyfriend. My parents gave my first boyfriend that look - I was twenty and he was thirty-one. But Wesley’s parents knew I was a close friend of Cody’s, and they knew I saved Wesley’s life by risking my own (oh yeah, did I not mention that? Turns out my bleeding to death on the highway actually did some good - when I was trying to flag down a car someone saw me and thought I was a meth addict or something who got stabbed and called 911, which is how the ambulance got there in time to save us). So they were willing to cut me a little slack. Though I’m pretty sure Mr. Bloom gave me a look that said ‘if you hurt my son I  _ will _ find you and I  _ will _ kill you.’ Come to think of it, Wes’ dad actually does look a little like Liam Neeson…

Anyway, it isn’t the legality that bothers Kim but the fact that she thinks he’s just too young for me, that he stirs up drama wherever he goes, that he’s self-destructive. I tried to argue that he isn’t any of those things (okay, he might be  _ a little _ too young for me), but she cut me off and told me she doesn’t care, that no matter what she says I’m going to do whatever I want anyway so all she wanted was for me to know how she feels. I took it to heart, because her opinion matters to me, but filed it under the category ‘Kim just doesn’t understand him like I do’, which seems to be a file that’s steadily filling up.

Dating Wesley for the past couple of weeks has been a little strange. First of all, he has a curfew. Second of all, I pick him up from school sometimes. I do feel pretty envious of him though when I do - he looks like a total badass being picked up from school by his twenty-something boyfriend in a band. No one’s as cool as Wesley, though. I’m still starstruck sometimes when I look at him, like I can hardly believe my luck. He’s who I always wanted to be when I was his age - hell, I’d want to be him  _ now _ . The more time we spend together the less he hides his combustible emotions. He doesn’t need his mask anymore. Indifferent is boring. Indifferent isn’t real. It’s the real him I love, and he knows that. The more I love him the stronger he gets, like my validation is the only one that matters, and now that he has it he isn’t afraid to be himself, or at least discover himself. Because he’s still discovering himself everyday. That’s the beauty of being young, finding yourself. I feel honored that I get to be there to watch him become who he’s meant to be. It’s like watching a flower bloom (heeyyy, I didn’t even mean to make that pun!). 

I don’t know if we’ll be together forever, I won’t say that. I know that right now we’re hopelessly in love, and everyday I wake up and can’t wait to see him, talk to him, make love to him, but the world is always changing, people are always changing. I’m not very interesting, and one day, when he’s become far more interesting than I am (because, let’s face it, he’s  _ already _ more interesting than I am), he’ll realize I’m no great shakes and that he’s young and should be out there playing the field, finding someone who’s more his equal. I’m no fool, I know that day will probably come. So for the time being I’m going to hang onto every day and every night with him like it’s the last, because it could be. After all, we could all die in a car crash tomorrow, right?

  
**Das Ende**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a wild and crazy journey it's been, eh? So, that's the end, ladies and gentlemen! Thank you to everyone who subscribed and followed and favorited. You're all rockstars in my book ;) Leave your love in the comments. I've started working on a sequel to this story, basically just the same story but in Wesley's POV. Since I only upload stories once I've finished them it might be a little while before that's up, so bear with me!  
> Love and love and love,  
> -Freak

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You're already the best! You know what would make you even MORE the best? Kudos and comments yo!  
> I'm going to be posting a chapter a week (regardless of comments but comments are much appreciated and will get you cookies!). Because the prologue and first chapter are so short I'm posting them at the same time. Thank you for your support and your awesomeness! You can also find this story posted to fictionpress under the username freakazoid-13, and on LJ and tumblr under freakazoid_13. Enjoy!


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